


Celebrate the Earth and Sky

by Aerlalaith



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 116,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlalaith/pseuds/Aerlalaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Earth never reached its full technological potential.  The Federation never happened. But the serendipitous rescue of a doomed mission sets into motion a series of events – and individuals – whose choices will either release Earth from its chains, or bind it forever.  Dystopian AU K/S.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Celebrate the Earth and Sky**

_Celebrate the Earth and Sky_   
_Soar with the Wind_   
_Let Your Spirit Fly_   
  
_-Unknown_

  
  
**PROLOGUE**  
  
 **Earth Year: 2225**  
  
Total systems failure had been a long time in coming.  And at 4.6 astronomical units away from Earth, orbiting Jupiter like a brand new moon, there was no help in sight.  
  
 _We didn’t even make it to Europa_ , she thought, shaking her head.  The lights flickered, and she leaned back in the uncomfortable thing they had taken to calling the “command chair” as a joke at the beginning of their mission – more than eight months ago, now.  
  
 _Eight months, three days, twenty-one hours since liftoff.  One month, two days since the mainframe computer overloaded and exploded, killing Captain Apalla and Commander Hix.  One month, two days since communications were lost.  Fifteen days since Lieutenant Macy, third in command – and only engineer remaining – was badly burned attempting repairs.  Fourteen days since she—_  
  
The woman stopped, grimacing.  She took a sip of water from the water bottle to her left and tapped a few commands into the small personal computer she held in front of her like a blank sheet of paper.  It blinked on, all bright colors and friendly boxes.  Pointedly ignoring the red battery symbol in the upper right hand corner, she tapped on a box.  Cards began to lay themselves across the screen.  
  
 _Two weeks since I’ve been here alone._  
  
The game of solitaire was not enough to keep her attention for long.  She swiveled in the chair and punched a button on its arm.  Nothing happened.  Scowling, she punched it again.  This time, it beeped twice at her before a mechanized voice said, “Recording.”  She cleared her throat.  
  
“This is— well, I guess it’s obvious, since I’ve been making these things for two weeks now.  It’s, um.”  Her voice caught, “Two weeks since Macy died.  I’m guessing it’s not going be another two before I’m dead too.  Um.”  She took a deep breath, her nose wrinkling.  “It stinks in here,” she said, with something between a laugh and a sob.  “Only the oxygen and water and light’s still working.  Everything else—” she rubbed at her eyes.  “Macy and Hix and the Captain they’re all in— the back room, I guess.  Well, their bodies, at any rate.  Shit.”  She punched the button again.  Nothing happened.  She hit it harder, but no response.  
  
“Stop it!  Stop recording, damn you!  You stupid, broken thing!  Stop!”  She jabbed at it, then grabbed at her hand, swearing.  “Fuck,” she groaned.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”  She scrubbed her face with her hands, then looked out at the view screen.  Jupiter and a dozen of its moons hung placidly in space like a living painting.  She stood.  
  
“Fuck you!” she screamed at the planet.  “And fuck all your moons and fuck, fuck this ship!  This stupid, worthless, tin can!” She punctuated each word with a kick to the broken control panel.  The lights flickered again.  “And fuck the stupid government for sending us here on a useless, stupid, fucking, mission!”  She stopped for a second, breathing hard, then slid back into her seat.  
  
“Who cares if there’s alien microbes on Europa?” she said softly, almost snickering.  “I sure as hell don’t.  At least—” she looked back towards the door, behind which the bodies of the rest of the crew had been piled on one of the bunk beds.  Thanks to the ventilation system, the smell permeated even through the thick sealed walls.  She kept her gaze scrupulously away from the charred disaster of the main operating computer.  “Not anymore.”  
  
The lights flickered for a final time, and then went out.  The low, barely noticeable buzz of the oxygen circulator halted.  The silence was deafening.  
  
The woman hugged her knees to her chest.  “Well,” she said to the darkness.  “I guess this is it.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
They deliberated for some time before approaching the craft.  It was primitive, barely capable of the meanest level of space flight, nothing near achieving warp speed.  
  
“Your curiosity is unbecoming of one of your status,” the first officer observed.  
  
“Your unwillingness to assist one in need is unbecoming of yours,” the ambassador shot back.  
  
“Enough,” said the captain.  He eyed his crew speculatively.  “Here we have a ship of primitive, alien design, not much larger than one of our four crew shuttles.  It no longer appears functional to our sensors and even if it were, it certainly would be incapable of harming us.  There is one life sign within.” He turned to his first officer.  “Commander Elkat,” he said, “I would have your thoughts on the matter.”  
  
Elkat stepped forward.  “This ship is no business of ours,” he said coolly.  “Its rescue does not fall within the parameters of our mission.  Additionally,” he looked over at the ambassador.  “Additionally,” he repeated, “revealing our presence would break two of the High Command’s key tenets: one, that we do not interfere in the affairs of primitive civilizations; and two, that we do not reveal our existence to those civilizations who have yet to achieve true space flight capabilities.”  
  
The captain nodded slowly.  He raised an eyebrow at the diplomat.  “Ambassador Sarek,” he said.  “It is clear that your opinion on the matter differs from the commander’s.  Please explain.”  
  
Sarek drew himself up.  At sixty-three years of age, he was young for his position.  An anomaly.  What’s more, every individual on the ship was aware that it was so.  
  
“Commande _r_ Elkat is correct regarding the council’s laws, of course,” he said.  “However, I do not believe that this falls outside our mission.  Indeed, it may be the best way to accomplish it.”  
  
The captain cocked his head.  He had heard that despite his relative youth, the ambassador had a tongue of water, capable of coaxing even the most stone-headed into changing their shape.  The captain had even heard, through sources unnamed, that Sarek had been somewhat instrumental in the cessation of hostilities with the Romulan Empire.  His argument might prove interesting.  He nodded.  
  
Sarek continued.  “We were charged to determine the status of the sentient beings dwelling on the third planet of this system,” he said.  He looked around the bridge.  “Why so?” he queried gently.  “Out of all the primitive planets within Vulcan’s sphere of influence, why this particular one?”  
  
No one answered.  In truth, their orders had seemed rather illogical – ferry a young ambassador across the quadrant to a small blue planet full of volatile emotional beings who likely would not recognize a warp core if it landed right in front of them.   Do not engage the natives.  Observe only.  Report any unusual activity back to the High Command.  
  
Odd, but not their place to question.  
  
“I will tell you why,” Sarek said.  “According to our projections, these people were scientifically advanced enough to discover true space flight more than two hundred years ago.  And yet,” he spread his hands, “they have not.”  
  
There was quiet as Sarek’s gaze passed around the room.  Elkat’s lips thinned.  
  
One of the navigators spoke hesitantly into the silence.  “Is there a conjecture as to the reason for this anomaly?”  
  
For the briefest of seconds, the captain thought he could literally hear the sounds of a trap clanging shut.  He cleared his mind and focused instead on Sarek who, as it appeared, had been waiting for that particular question.  _Much like a le-matya lies in wait for its prey_ , he mused, and maybe should have been more alarmed at the thought than he was.  
  
“Indeed,” Sarek said simply.  “Outside interference.”  
  
There were numerous doubtful looks exchanged at this pronouncement.  The blue planet was well within Vulcan’s influence.  It would be highly unlikely for anything to occur in that sector without their knowledge.  
  
“Of course, that is conjecture only,” Sarek added.  “Perhaps our earlier calculations regarding the rate at which their civilization advanced, were incorrect.  We simply do not know.”  
  
Elkat spoke.  “Two wrongs do not make a right, Ambassador,” he said.  “Even if others have done so, we still have no right to interfere in these peoples’ affairs.”  
  
Sarek turned to the captain.  “Am I correct in assuming that there are no more ships in the vicinity?” he said.  
  
“You are correct,” the captain affirmed, sensing what was coming like an impending doom.  
  
“Then the timing is such that the individual aboard the alien craft cannot hope for a recue from their own people,” Sarek said, and his voice was sharper this time.  “If we assist the alien, we shall not only be sparing a life – another of Surak’s decrees, if my memory serves correctly – we shall also be gaining a direct, and valuable, source of information as to what, if anything, has occurred on the blue planet to stall the advancement of their civilization.”  He looked directly at the captain, eyes locking.  “If there are none on this ship willing to go and collect the alien, then I will do so myself.”  
  
The captain was hard pressed not to do something so illogical as sigh.  “The alien must be quarantined,” he ordered, resisting the urge to rub at his temples.  Most unbecoming.  “I will have no mysterious diseases on this ship.”  
  
The ambassador bowed.  “Understood, Captain,” he said.  
  
“The alien ship is no larger than one of our shuttles,” the captain continued.  “We will bring it in and quarantine it in shuttle bay four.”  He fixed Sarek with a look that could have cut glass.  “Until the High Command can be reached, the alien is your responsibility,” he said.  
  
Sarek bowed again, “Understood,” he repeated.  Then he turned and, signaling to his aide, swept out of the room.  
  
The tractor beam on the Vulcan ship was more than up to securing the alien vessel.  When it had been brought safely aboard and the shuttle bay re-oxygenated, Sarek entered the bay.  At the Captain’s insistence, he wore a suit designed to minimize the potential for biological hazards.  
  
Sarek stepped down towards the primitive craft, and touched it, somewhat hesitantly.  He could feel the coolness of ceramic tiles beneath the thin material stretched over his fingers.  He cocked his head, eyeing what appeared to be a door on the craft’s side, and turned to the security force that had followed him.  
  
“It may be necessary to cut into the alien ship,” he said.  He slid his hand along the side until it came to rest on what, for all intents and purposes, seemed to be a handle.  He tugged at it.  The door did not budge.  “It must be locked from the inside,” he murmured to himself.  
  
An engineer moved to stand next to him.  “We can cut into the material with minimum difficulty, Ambassador,” she said, waving a tricorder over the side of the craft.  _“_ We will need forty-five minutes, maximum.”  
  
“Take as much time as you need,” said Sarek.  “I will wait here.”  He removed the mask from his bio-suit, and sat down cross-legged, not too far away.  
  
“Very well,” said the engineer.  She began to call out orders to the other crewmembers in the shuttle bay.  Less than an hour later, just as the engineer had predicted, the door had been neatly severed from the side of the craft.  
  
“We have implemented a small shield at the entrance,” the engineer said.  “It should contain any hazardous materials or life-forms, until we are able to do a more thorough study.  
  
Sarek nodded.  “I wish to enter the alien craft.  Will that be possible?”  
  
She frowned minutely.  “Possible?  Yes.  It is not safe.”  
  
Sarek tapped the chest of his bio-suite.  “I have taken precautions,” he said.  “Our scanners have detected nothing anomalous, correct?”  
  
“Correct,” the engineer said, somewhat reluctantly.  
  
“Then there is no use in waiting,” Sarek said.  “ _From idleness to inaction.”_  
  
“Surak also approved of caution,” said the engineer.  
  
“Nevertheless,” said Sarek.  “I am an ambassador.  It is my duty to speak with new peoples.”  
  
“Indeed,” the engineer deadpanned.  She handed him a scanner.  “Very well.  Let us hope that the people you intend to speak with are just as intent to speak with you.”  
  
“Hope is illogical,” said Sarek.  
  
She raised an eyebrow.  “That is one school of thought.”  
  
Sarek stared at her for a moment, and then swiftly headed towards the opening in the side of the alien craft.  “Remove the shielding,” he commanded, replacing his mask.  
  
“Yes, Ambassador,” said the technician.  He touched something on the nearby panel.  
  
Sarek took a deep breath, centering himself, and entered the alien ship.  
  
Inside was dark and cramped.  There was a door almost immediately to his right.  After a momentary hesitation, he pulled on it.  It did not move.  Sarek’s eyes swept around, taking in the doorway.  He noticed a small button near midway between the floor and the ceiling.  He pressed it and the door slid open.  
  
Sarek stepped inside, his gaze alighting on the structures bolted to the side of the wall.  He raised an eyebrow.  From the scans of the blue planet, he knew that the dominant sentient aliens were physiologically similar to Vulcans.  They were mammalian.  Bipedal.  Their society appeared to include both complicated social structure and extensive ritual.  If he had been on Vulcan, the room would definitely have resembled some form of military barracks, or a sleep chamber.  He thought for a moment before determining that it was likely this room formed a similar function.  
  
He stepped closer to the structures, and then froze, his eyes widening.  
  
Bodies.  There were three bodies, stacked next to each other.  A rounded piece of metal (Currency? Sarek wondered.  He had encountered such practices before) had been placed on each of their eyelids, keeping them closed.  Their five fingered hands had been clasped in front of their chests.  They were in varying stages of decay.  One of the bodies appeared badly burnt on one side.  
  
Sarek swallowed, suddenly immeasurably grateful that his bio-suite had its own oxygen system and that he had been spared the, no-doubt awful, smell.  
  
He backed out of the room. The ship’s scanners had detected a life sign.  Someone had to have placed the bodies in that room.  He headed towards the front of the craft, bypassing what looked like a laboratory, as well as a food preparation area.  He pressed the button on the door leading to what must serve as the bridge and it slid open with a hydraulic hiss.  
  
There was indeed an alien in the room.  It was slumped in a chair near the front view screen.  Its eyes were shut.  Sarek moved closer, stepping over the mangled hardware spread chaotically across the floor.  
  
The alien superficially resembled a Vulcan female.  It wore a one-piece suit of a rough, brown material, with alien script scrawled across the left side.  The hair was a dark brown and gathered at the back, the skin somewhat pale.  Unlike a Vulcan, the ears were smaller and rounded.  The eyebrows were less severe.  The arteries beneath the pale skin leant the reddish hue of oxygenated iron-based blood to the being’s face.  
  
Sarek inched forward, his hand outstretched, almost as an afterthought.  Should he perform a meld?  The alien appeared unconscious.  Perhaps—  
  
Sarek jumped back, startled, as the closed eyes began to flutter open.  The alien blinked once, twice.  It sat up with a gasp, clearly frightened brown eyes meeting his behind the mask.  
  
They stared at each other.  
  
Slowly, ever so slowly, and definitely not thinking about the illogic of his actions, Sarek’s fumbling fingers removed his mask.  The alien cringed back into the chair as he did so, and it swallowed as Sarek’s features became apparent.  Sarek tilted his head.  
  
“I am Ambassador Sarek,” he said.  “I represent the Vulcan High Command.  Who are you?”  He spread his fingers in the _ta’al_ , and bowed.  
  
The alien’s eyebrows drew together, clearly not understanding a word he was saying, but managing to convey the sentiment of complete bewilderment in a most succinct expression.  
  
Straightening, Sarek took a moment to appreciate the fact that although he and this being had evolved on very different worlds, they were still so miraculously similar.  On Vulcan, he had never placed much store in the Preservers Theory or the Theory of Parallel Evolutions but now, face to face with this alien being, he could see the merits of such ideas.  
  
He tried again. “Do you understand me?”  
  
The alien raised an eyebrow at him.  Sarek was startled, both by the illogic of his own question, and the disturbingly familiar response.  He huffed out a breath and tapped his chest.  “Sa-rek.” he said slowly.  “Sarek.”  
  
The alien blinked.  Then, its eyes lit up.  It pointed a shaky finger at him.  “Sarek,” it repeated quietly, not quite getting the accent correct.  
  
Sarek nodded.  He hoped – no, hope was illogical – it would be _fortunate_ if the alien understood the gesture.  “Sarek,” he said again, hand on his chest.  He extended his other hand, index finger pointed, mirroring the alien’s action.  “And you?”  
  
The alien’s gaze followed Sarek’s movement.  It pointed to Sarek again.  “Sarek,” it said.  Then it tapped its own chest.  “Amanda.”  
  
“Amanda,” Sarek echoed.  The rhythm of the alien syllables were not displeasing nor, to be completely truthful, entirely alien to the tongue.  
  
The alien nodded.  “Amanda,” it said again, and smiled.  
  
And for some reason, Sarek felt the strangest urge to smile back.


	2. Celebrate the Earth and Sky I

**Celebrate the Earth and Sky I**  
  
 **2241, Vulcan**  
  
Spock was different.  
  
At the behest of his father, Spock had memorized the tenets of Surak before his seventh birthday.  He recalled the first moment he had recited them to complete satisfaction, _cthia_ , under Sarek’s watchful eye.  Standing in the doorway of his father’s study, he could remember with crystal clarity the cold, polished sandstone under his bare feet, and the soft fabric of his heavy, formal robes weighing down his slim shoulders.  
  
He could remember the slight hesitation, the vague guilt squashed somewhere in his belly, when he spoke the fifth tenet.  
  
 _A single untruth will birth many tangled offspring, each one more deformed than the last.  The Vulcan who follows Cthia will therefore never lie, even should the consequence be his own destruction._  
  
Spock was not the only hybrid on Vulcan.  He was not even the first.  Since the cessation of hostilities with the Romulans nearly twenty years ago, Vulcan-Romulan hybrids had become, if not commonplace, at least not pariah.  Of course, Vulcans and Romulans shared a common ancestry.  Truthfully, they could breed without any external assistance.  
  
There were nine hundred and sixty-four Vulcan-Romulan hybrids.   
  
Even so.  There were other hybrids.  There were six Vulcan-Klingon hybrids.  There were two hundred and seven Vulcan-Betazoid hybrids.  
  
If the public records were to be believed, there were two hundred and eight Vulcan-Betazoid hybrids.  
  
Spock knew better.  
  
“It is fortunate that, despite the none-discriminatory practice of empathy among the Betazoid people, you have shown little inclination towards it.”  
  
Spock turned away from his perusal of Vulcan’s Forge, visible out the main window of the library of his learning institution.  
  
“It is fortunate that, despite Vulcans’ historic precedence towards illogic and violence, you are remarkably capable of withholding from such self-debasement, Sokar,” said Spock.  
  
Sokar bristled, then attempted to smooth his expression over so that it did not look as though he had been bristling.  He was only marginally successful.  
  
“I have always expressed curiosity regarding the mind of a mixed-breed,” said Sokar.  He leaned in closer to Spock, who tried not to flinch.  Sokar was three years older than Spock, taller and broader.  
  
“You will have to continue in your curiosity,” said Spock, stiffly.  “My mind is my own.”  
  
“You are unbound,” said Sokar, stepping forward.  Spock sidestepped him a little, his back still to the wall.  
  
“You are not,” Spock bit out.  “Desist.  I have no desire to catch _pa’nar_ syndrome from a mind used to indiscriminate melding.”  
  
Sokar’s eyes widened in affront.  “You _dare_ ,” he started, catching Spock’s wrist.  
  
“Release me!” Spock said, trying to quell his panic.  He could feel Sokar’s consciousness push up against his own through the contact between their skin.  He focused on his mental shields.  
  
Sokar’s face was blank but his eyes were mocking.  “You seem to be somewhat emotionally compromised, Spock.”  
  
“I am not.”  Spock’s back hit the wall.  
  
“What will you do, Spock?” Sokar asked.  “It is illogical to deny me this.  I am taller than you, and stronger.  I have accomplished the twelfth level in suss-mahn, and you are still at the eighth.  You do not belong here, Spock.” Nearly chest-to-chest, he let go of Spock’s wrist, his hand reaching again toward Spock’s temple.  “Your half-breed disadvantage makes that abundantly clear— ”  
  
Spock formed his freed hand into a fist and without pausing to think, uppercut it straight into Sokar’s jaw.  
  
“Aurgh! _”_  Sokar grunted as he stumbled back, hand clutching at his chin.  His eyes flashed.   
  
Spock stood stock still, not quite able to believe what he had just done.  He stared at his fist as though it belonged to someone else.  Sokar’s cheeks flushed green with fury.  He straightened, settling into one of the more aggressive suss-mahn stances.  
  
Spock bolted.  
  
His schoolbag flapped against his side as he ran, his uniform robes cumbersome as he attempted to lengthen his stride.  He did not look back to see if Sokar was following him.  Either the older boy had lost all sense of logic and was pursuing him with murderous intent, or he had somehow retained the presence of mind to appeal to an authority figure; clearly Spock had lost control, to resort to such violence.  
  
Either way, Spock knew that the resulting chaos would not be in his favor.   
  
He raced down the main corridor, streaming towards the exit.  He was sufficiently athletic, but his breath came in pants nonetheless, fear tightening his lungs.  He gasped as he skidded to a stop in front of one of the side-doors.   
  
Spock’s educational institution was among the best in Shi’kahr.  Part of its reputation came from the somewhat unorthodox approach of allowing its students to perform research projects in the Vulcan Forge itself.  In this vain, the institution was situated at the very edge of the vast desert.  The front of the main building faced the city.  The back opened westward, to the edges of the Forge.  Spock had, nearly unwittingly, fled towards the back.  He looked around wildly, his keen ears picking up the faint sound of pursuit.  Spock made a split second decision, thought longingly of his own room, the quiet of meditation and his mother’s comforting scent, then wrenched open the sliding door and took off into the desert.  
  
Three point two nine hours later, Spock was beginning to regret his decision.  Heat blazed across the surface of the bare rock.  The sun was setting, and his shadow grew longer and longer as he walked with aimless purpose.  
  
His original plan had been to circle around towards the main road leading back to Shi’kahr, and from there, access public transportation.  However, illogical fear of discovery, of some sort of punishment for his transgression, kept him moving on a path that he hoped was parallel to the main road from the institution.   
  
By the time he had calmed down enough to think clearly however, the road had turned.  Picking his way through a crevasse, Spock was struck with uncertainty.  Which way should he go?  
  
The Forge was a vast desert, ringed with mountains.  Spock knew that millions of years ago, it had been an extremely seismically active rift valley, splitting apart three ways.  Eventually, two of the separating sections had taken precedence over the third, and the Forge’s local seismic activity had become considerably lowered, in favor of the southern orogeny.  He knew that the mountains to the south were igneous in nature, formed by the volcanism caused by the newly emerging, divergent plate boundary.  The mountains to the north were much older, curved from a tectonic collision that had occurred millions of years before the rift valley even began, when what was now the Forge had been a shallow sea.  
  
Spock’s mother kept a garden in the back courtyard of the villa.  When Spock had been a much younger child, he used to assist her in caring for the small patches of plomeek, and the desert flowers.  He listened to her speak about the water-rich gardens of her homeworld, and wished that he might one day see an orchid, or a lily.  On one occasion, he uncovered a small fossil of a mollusk while digging up the stubborn weeds drawn by his mother’s tender care, and she had explained to him that before the land rose and the sun rebelled, there had been a sea.  
  
In the fading light, Spock could see that the mountains and hillocks to his left were far smoother, their lines sculpted by wind, their layers more visible.  The mountains to his right were darker, with rough boulders and chaotic speckles of lighter and darker minerals.  The rock around him was clearly igneous as well.  
  
Spock headed left.  Logically, the emerging volcanoes would have eliminated visible traces of fossilized life.  Therefore, if he had found a fossil near his home, then he must head north.  
  
Unfortunately, when it came to understanding the complexities of dynamic planetary strata, Spock’s logic was not as sound as it could have been.  
  
His first full night in the Forge, Spock wedged himself into an accommodating overhang, his ears pricked for any sound of a le-matya hungry for a midnight snack.  
  
His second night in the Forge, he attempted to meditate on the events that had brought him there.  He was shocked out of his meditation by the sound of claws scrabbling against the rock above him.  Adrenaline engulfing his system, he gripped a sharp stone and prepared to fight off the expected predator.  
  
The intruder however, turned out to be only a small rodent.  
  
On the fifth day, beginning to feel the lack of water, Spock considered that he might have made an error in direction.  He turned around, and headed south.  
  
When the tenth day arrived, Spock was reminded forcefully of his kas-wahn.  Despite the unusual circumstances surrounding his coming of age four years ago – notably that he had undergone the ritual before his seventh birthday – when his kas-wahn was completed, it was complete.  His father had expressed relief (“the cause is sufficient, Spock”) and his mother, joy (“I don’t know what on earth you were thinking, but I’m just glad you’re back safe”) upon his return.  
  
This time, Spock was not entirely certain that he would, in fact, be returning.  
  
On the twelfth day of his ordeal, Spock sat among the debris from a rock fall, his back against one particularly sun-warmed boulder.  His throat felt parched, and he lacked the energy to do anything more than sit.  Even meditation felt beyond him now.  He wondered if his family was concerned for him.  His mother, certainly, but she was not Vulcan and so such emotionalism was to be expected.  But what of his father?  What of his brother?  
  
Would they grieve his death?  
  
“Surely your House would greatly mourn the demise of such a fine, young son,” said a voice near his elbow.  
  
Spock started, cracking open his eyes.  “What?” he managed to croak.  He belatedly took in the form of an ancient Vulcan, clad in little more than ragged robes, leaning upon a staff.  Spock blinked again.  Trees, and the wood they produced, were relatively rare and precious.  How peculiar.  
  
“I apologize,” said the elder.  “Am I interrupting your kas-wahn?”  
  
Spock shook his head.  Really, he was not _that_ small.  His height was within two standard deviations for his age group.  Barely.  “No,” he said.  “And there is . . .”  
  
“. . . No offense where none is taken,” finished the elder for him.  “I see.  Your House must be a part of the Syrranite movement.  Only the children of Syrranites quote Surak with such zealotry.  Interesting.”  
  
Spock wondered if the stranger was, in fact, a member of a rival faction out for his blood.  
  
The wrinkled face took on an almost amused cast.  “Do not worry so, child.  I follow Surak’s precepts as best I may.  You are in no danger here.”  
  
“I was not,” Spock tried, maneuvering his legs to support his weight.  
  
“Yes, yes,” said the elder.  He grabbed for Spock’s elbow and helped him stand, careful not to touch skin.  “Come to my oasis,” he said.  “It is not far.”  
  
The elder’s name, it turned out, was Vorek.  “A third son,” he told Spock, watching the younger Vulcan take greedy sips of water.  “A third son, such as myself, had little prospect in the grand schemes of my family.  Therefore, why should I not dedicate my time and energy to meditation, and to the deeper understanding of our world?”  
  
Spock frowned.  “I do not understand the appeal,” he maintained.  In truth, his mind was only partially engaged by the conversation.  The rest of him was busy appreciating the shade of a few thin trees, and the grasses fed by the small spring that formed Vorek’s oasis.  
  
Vorek’s eyes took on a far away cast.  “Perhaps it would serve you to experience such a life, before placing judgment upon it.  No, no,” he said, as Spock looked down at his feet, “I did not mean to rebuke you.”  
  
“I must return home,” Spock said.  “My mother will be . . . she will be concerned for my well-being.”  
  
“Very well,” said Vorek.  “On foot, Shi’kahr is a four day journey that way.”  He pointed.  “I would advise you not to get lost again.”  
  
Spock gripped the sides of his, now very matted and dirty, school robes.  “Do you have a communicator?  That would greatly simplify the matter.”  
  
“I do not,” Vorek said.   
  
Spock licked his lips, “Then, would you perhaps be willing to, to guide me?  On my journey?”  
  
Vorek looked at him.  “I would be willing,” he said after a long, steady stare.  “I would much prefer it if you did not die in the Forge.”  
  
“I— I am gratified,” Spock spoke quickly.  “If there is anything, any sort of recompense . . . ?”  
  
“We will leave tomorrow,” said Vorek.   
  
“Ah,” said Spock.  “Why?”  
  
Vorek patted the rock at his side.  “Sit here beside me, child,” he said.  “It would not do for you to emerge from the desert still so conflicted.  Meditate with me.  Perhaps I, and this place, can ease your suffering.”  
  
At a loss for what else to do, Spock sat.  Unless he wished to head back into the desert alone, clearly he was going nowhere.  “I am not suffering,” he said.  
  
“Indeed,” said Vorek.  “Then why are you here?”  
  
“It was necessary to escape one of my peers,” said Spock, shoulders stiff.  He fisted handfuls of his robe until his knuckles turned white.  “He implied he wished to perform a mind meld without my consent.”  
  
Vorek raised an eyebrow.  “Oh?”  
  
At this point, Spock could not have stopped speaking even if he tried.  “He expressed curiosity in the mind of a,” he made himself spit out the term, “a _halfbreed_ ,” he said.  “I,” he bit his lip, “I struck him.  And I fled.  I did not intend to end up out here,” he said petulantly, gesturing to his surroundings.  
  
“You were frightened,” said Vorek.  
  
“Fear must be cast out,” Spock said, the words coming automatically to his tongue.  “It is an emotional response.”  
  
“Nevertheless,” said Vorek.  He shifted, crossing his legs.  “If I may ask a personal query?”  
  
Spock hesitated, then nodded.   
  
“Which one of your parents is Vulcan?”  
  
“My father,” said Spock.  
  
“And your mother?”  
  
“According to public record, my mother hails from Betazed,” said Spock.  
  
Vorek blinked.  
  
“The record is false,” said Spock, reckless now with thirst and fear.  “My mother is nearly completely psi null.  She hails from a planet in the Sol system, sixteen light years from here.  My father calls it the ‘Blue Planet.’”  
  
“Fascinating,” said Vorek.  “Do I understand correctly that your mother’s people are not yet warp capable?”  
  
“Yes,” Spock muttered, inexplicably ashamed.  
  
“How curious,” said Vorek.  “Later, you must tell me the circumstances under which your parents met.”  
  
“Later?” Spock echoed.  
  
“Now however, we will meditate.”  Vorek turned to Spock.  “Today we will meditate on Vulcan.  On the nature of this harsh planet we call home.  This is your father’s homeland.  For your boyhood, I sense this will suffice.”  The corners of Vorek’s eyes crinkled.  “But to achieve the peace within yourself that you are seeking, one day you must do the same for your mother’s home world.  Only then, I suspect, will you be able to accept your dual nature.”  
  
“That is impossible,” said Spock, envisioning all of the restrictions regarding contact with non-warp capable societies.  
  
Vorek shook his head.  “Few things are truly impossible,” he said.  “Someday, you will go to the Blue Planet.  Just as we Vulcans must return to our planet every seven years, so too will you be drawn to your mother’s home.  It is inevitable.  It is in your blood.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
 **Earth Year 2256**  
 **Shi’kahr Spaceport, Vulcan**  
  
“Mother, please desist.  We are in public.”  
  
“I know, I know.”  Amanda let her hand slip from Spock’s wrist.  “Still, I can’t help— I worry, you know?”  
  
“Yes,” Spock said dryly.  He exchanged glances with his father.  
  
She leaned in closer.  “Remember what I’ve told you.  It’s been nearly thirty years since I was on Earth.  Things have probably changed.”  
  
“It is a certainty,” Spock said.   
  
“I still think it’s foolish for the High Command to send you alone,” fretted Amanda.  
  
Spock shook his head.  “Mother, you know this is a brief investigative mission.  Due to my – _unique_ – heritage, I am clearly the most logical person to send.  I speak two of the planet’s languages.  I know the customs—”  
  
“Barely,” snorted Amanda.  
  
“I will be able to blend with the local populace more thoroughly than anyone else on this planet.”  
  
Amanda gave him a pointed look.  
  
“With the exception of yourself,” Spock amended.   
  
“Right,” said Amanda, matching his earlier dry tone.  
  
“Mother, my shuttle is scheduled to depart in twenty three point nine three minutes.”  
  
“It is time, Amanda,” said Sarek.  He stepped forward, his fingers in the _ta’al_.  “Live long and prosper, my son.”  
  
“And don’t get killed,” Sybok said.  “It would be very disappointing.”  
  
Sarek turned to his eldest with an expression that would have, on any other species, been termed exasperation.  “It has not escaped my notice that _your_ shuttle is also due soon,” he said pointedly.  “Perhaps you might consider making your way to your gate.”  
  
Sybok shrugged.  “And miss Spock’s great departure?”  
  
“Indeed,” Spock said, definitely not giving his brother a glare.  
  
“I find the idea of your travelling to Romulus disquieting,” Sarek said to Sybok, putting everyone back on a topic they were most familiar with.  “Do not let their emotionalism affect you.”  
  
“And yet you do not find the idea of Spock’s travels to a primitive society – no offense, Amanda – as worrisome?” Sybok queried.   
  
Amanda put her hands on her hips.  
  
Sarek looked helplessly between his two sons, and his wife.  “My concerns regarding Spock are different from my concerns regarding you,” he settled on.  
  
“So what you really mean,” Sybok began.  
  
“Enough,” said Sarek, raising his voice just the slightest bit.  “Sybok, bid your brother farewell.”  
  
“Very well.” Sybok leaned over to Spock. “I think I may have emotionally compromised him a bit,” he murmured into Spock’s ear.  
  
Spock’s eyebrow twitched.  “I do not understand the appeal of goading father,” he muttered back.  “Honestly, Sybok.  Logic is everything to him.”  
  
Sybok stepped back.  “Perhaps that is why I do it,” he said with an uncharacteristic note of sobriety.  He touched his fingers to Spock’s meld points, a contrarily Vulcan gesture of affection.  “Be well, brother.”  
  
“And you,” Spock said, feeling the spark of Sybok’s consciousness behind the touch.  He turned back to Sarek.  “Peace and long life, Father.”  He looked at Amanda.  “Mother.”  He bowed a little.  
  
“Stay safe, Spock,” repeated his mother, as Spock turned to go.  “You know I love you,” she added in her native language.  Despite her use of a tongue few on Vulcan would be familiar with, Spock’s ears and the back of his neck flushed green.  
  
“Yes,” he whispered, voice barely audible.  He hoisted his small bag of personal possessions (his much larger suitcase had already been loaded onto the shuttle), and boarded.  
  
The transport shuttle was small, but Spock did not mind.  Its only purpose was to break atmosphere and dock with a much larger ship, the VSS _Nirak,_ which was intended to ferry him to his destination.  While Spock conducted his mission on the Blue Planet ( _“Earth,” his mother said.  “We call it Earth.  Or Terra, if that’s easier for you.”)_ , the VSS _Nirak_ would conduct routine surveys on the Sol system.  He had heard that there was a particularly curious group of meteorologists, who were most intent to study a peculiarly large and, seemingly permanent storm on Sol V.  
  
The shuttle took off with a rumble.  Spock flipped open his communication device, and settled himself to practicing irregular English verbs.  
  
The _Nirak_ boasted a three hundred and six member crew, not counting Spock.  Its science labs were not the best in the Vulcan fleet by far, but neither were they among the worse.  The captain of the _Nirak_ welcomed him, as well as the rest of the shuttle passengers, on board with a brusque _ta’al_ , and a standard greeting.   
  
Spock was assigned quarters with one of the meteorologists, a young male named Visak.  Visak was from the southern continent.  His skin and eyes were a deep brown, and it was clear to Spock that his emotional control was, if not tenuous, less apparent than Spock’s.  He seemed rather to drift through life with a permanent sense of amusement.  Often, it was directed at Spock himself.  
  
Spock found it most unsettling.  
  
“I have heard you attended the Vulcan Science Academy,” said Visak.  He carried a piece of _kraila_ in his hand, and a bowl of _pia-savas_.  Spock looked curiously at the fruit, but was forced to avert his gaze as Visak began to eat with his bare hands.  
  
“Is something wrong?” Visak asked, popping a piece of the red fruit into his mouth.  He followed it with a bite of _kraila_.  
  
“On the Blue Planet, _kraila_ would be referred to as ‘bread,’” Spock said.   
  
“Fascinating,” Visak deadpanned.  He followed Spock’s gaze to the fruit in his hand, catching the disapproval in his eyes.  “I will not apologize for my cultural norms,” he said.  “The people of Shi’kahr may abhor eating with their hands, but my people believe in using the tools at our disposal.”  
  
“I do not require it,” replied Spock.  He turned back to his English verbs.  
  
Visak sat next to him, still chewing the _kraila_.  “What did you study at the Academy?”  
  
“My main focuses were computer science and astrophysics.”  
  
“Odd that the High Command would send a physicist to a pre-warp planet,” Visak remarked.  He extended his hand.  “Would you like some . . .” he wrinkled his nose, “ _bri-ed_?”  
  
Spock was ninety three percent certain that Visak was baiting him.  He extended his hand, “Bread.  Yes, please,” he said.   
  
Visak blinked for a moment, then handed over a piece.  Spock resolutely ignored the thought of what his father would say should he catch him behaving in such an uncouth manner.  
  
“So, why did the High Command choose you for this mission?” Visak persisted.  
  
“I have had close contact with one of the aliens from the Blue Planet,” said Spock.  “Such communication provided the opportunity to learn both the rudiments of culture and language necessary for blending in amongst the natives.”  
  
“They are Vulcanoid?”  
  
“Not entirely,” Spock admitted.  “Their physiology more closely resembles the inhabitants of Betazed.”  
  
“Telepathy?” asked Visak.  He bit a chunk of _pia-savas_ , and offered the bowl to Spock with an absent flick of his wrist.  This time, Spock declined.  
  
“Negligible,” said Spock.  
  
“How intriguing,” said Visak.  “Are they a peaceful species?”  
  
“I was under the impression that your area of interest revolved around meteorology,” Spock said pointedly.   
  
Visak shrugged, “I am merely curious.  Do you so dislike conversation?”  
  
“I dislike superfluous conversation,” Spock said, a little sharply.   
  
Visak looked down his nose at him, “Very well,” he said.  He stood, and turned to leave the room.  “It appears you also dislike common courtesy,” he observed over his shoulder as he left.  
  
Spock watched the door slide shut.  He turned back to his verbs.  
  
Visak returned two point five six hours later.  He nodded to Spock, and then retired to his bunk.  By that time, Spock had progressed from his language studies to reviewing scans of the Blue Planet itself.  He paged through the figures on the screen of his PADD.  Six continents and six thousand and five hundred estimated languages for a population of approximately five billion.  According to his mother, the differing cultures of Terra numbered nearly as many – and each culture had, of course, seen its share of bloodshed.  Even with his eidetic memory, he felt as though he could never prepare enough for this mission.  
  
 _“Mother, why do you speak so little of your home planet?”_  
  
 _“Oh, Spock.”  Amanda rose from her knees, and brushed off the soil from her robe.  She led her small son out of the rows of neatly watered plants, and gestured that he should sit beside her next to the walls of their home.  She leaned back against the cool stone.  Spock copied her movement with a careful eye._  
  
 _“Why, Mother?” he prompted again, when it became clear that Amanda was reluctant to speak._  
  
 _She sighed.  “My home planet is a vibrant place,” she said.  “Our art is pleasing to the eye, our foods pleasing to the palate, and our music . . .” she drifted off._  
  
 _“Pleasing to the ear?” guessed Spock._  
  
 _“Well, I suppose,” Amanda said.  “But more than that it’s, hmmm, the epitome of our state of being.”  She paused.  “A portrait of our emotionalism.”_  
  
 _“Surak said that one must master one’s emotion, lest they become master over you,” Spock said, with all the righteousness of a six year old.  He was also unsure how one might draw or paint emotions with sound, but chalked that up to his mother’s inherently illogical speech patterns._  
  
 _“Surak was not from Earth,” Amanda replied._  
  
 _“Perhaps when I am grown I will bring Surak’s teachings to Earth,” said Spock.  “Then Terrans can learn about mastery of emotion, and you will be able to visit.”  He leaned against his mother’s side._  
  
 _Amanda snickered, and ran her hand through Spock’s hair.  “Some humans do practice mastering emotions,” she said._  
  
 _“Do they meditate?” Spock demanded.  “Father says that I must meditate if I am to succeed in . . . mastery.”_  
  
 _“Yes,” said Amanda.  “They do meditate.”_  
  
 _“Then I do not understand,” said Spock.  “Why aren’t your people like us?”_  
  
 _Amanda gave a crooked smile.  “Do all Vulcans have superior control of logic?”_  
  
 _“Father does,” said Spock._  
  
 _Amanda rolled her eyes.  “Everyone is different,” she said.  “It is the same on Earth – even more so.  We’re very—” she pursed her lips.  “Fractured,” she said finally.  “Humans rarely unify under one belief, let alone a whole philosophy.”_  
  
 _“Even science?” Spock asked.  Surely everyone had to agree on what could be proven through the scientific method._  
  
 _“Even science,” his mother affirmed, not wanting to destroy her son’s illusions that Vulcan scientists never disagreed on anything._  
  
 _Spock looked scandalized.  “Earth sounds like a very peculiar place,” he managed._  
  
 _“Yes,” Amanda agreed.  “Peculiar, and conflicted.”  She looked towards the southern mountain range, the sun’s rays casting long shadows over the dusty red rocks.  “But beautiful,” she added, as she stood.  “Very beautiful.”_  
  
“Visak,” Spock said.  
  
“Yes?” Visak looked over at Spock, his brown eyes wide in inquiry.  
  
“To the native sentient species of the Sol system, Sol V is known as _Jupiter_ ,” Spock said.  “In one of their earliest civilizations, _Jupiter_ was the name of their highest deity.”  
  
Visak blinked at him.  
  
“In an earlier incarnation, the same deity was known as _Zeus_ ,” said Spock.  “He controlled lightning bolts as weaponry.  According to the mythology.”  
  
Visak continued to stare.  
  
“I,” said Spock.  “My earlier behavior was rude.” He swallowed.  “I would ask your forgiveness for the transgression.”  
  
“There is no offense where none is taken,” Visak said after a moment of continuing to look baffled.   
  
“I am gratified,” said Spock.  
  
The silence in their shared quarters was suitably awkward for the remainder of the evening.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
“We are expected to remain in the Sol system for at least ninety days,” said Captain T’Lan.  She wore a modified version of a traditional Vulcan military uniform, common among Vulcan’s peacekeeping armada.  A long black tunic reached down to mid-thigh, gathered at the waist.  Gold lettering embroidered down the wide black cloth of her left arm marked her rank and ship, and on her right was the emblem of her House.  Her brown flared trousers whispered as she moved in front of Spock.  Her dark hair was tightly braided.  “Does that accommodate the High Command’s mission?”  
  
Spock, hands clasped behind his back, inclined his head.  “Indeed,” he said.  “The time should be sufficient.”  He felt somewhat out of place, clad in a simple pair of white trousers and a common traveler’s robe.  
  
“The High Command has been somewhat tight lipped regarding the parameters of your mission,” T’Lan said.  “Are you permitted to speak of them?”   
  
“For what purpose?”  
  
T’Lan studied the view screen for a moment, her gaze dragging down the expanse of the water covered planet.  She looked back up at Spock.  “While I am aware that the natives of Sol III do not possess warp capability, that does not mean they do not possess intelligence,” she said.  “There is increased safety in increased knowledge, and I am aware that the history of the natives is violent and their politics unstable.  If your extraction becomes necessary, I would prefer not to risk my crew on such a venture.”  
  
“Such an extraction will not be necessary,” said Spock.  “I understand the risks of this mission.”  
  
“And if you are discovered?”  
  
“Then I am discovered,” said Spock.  “I trust the transponder implanted in my arm will permit you to locate me without difficulty?”  
  
“Unless it is removed,” countered T’Lan.  She walked over to one of the science stations, and entered a code.  A graph and series of numbers popped up on the screen.  “The natives have mastered the use of extremely low frequency wavelengths for communication, have they not?”  
  
“Indeed,” said Spock, suspecting he knew where this was going.  
  
“If your transponder is removed, we will be monitoring this frequency when we return to planetary orbit,” she said, indicating the screen.  “If your situation calls for it, we will ideally be able to intercept any message you send.”  
  
“Logical,” Spock approved.   
  
“Indeed,” said T’Lan.  “I would prefer not to leave you marooned on this planet.  It does not seem to me a pleasant place.”  
  
“I would not know,” said Spock.  
  
“Your beam down is scheduled in thirty-five minutes,” said T’Lan.  “I assume you have already prepared your effects?”  
  
“Yes,” said Spock.  “The Vulcan Science Academy was able to procure a small bag and provisions similar to those found on Sol III.  The mission proceeding as planned, I will be able to blend in with the local populace without much difficulty.”  
  
“It has been my experience,” said T’Lan, “that first contact missions rarely proceed as planned.  Even the preliminary ones.”  
  
“I am prepared for that possibility,” said Spock.  He did not disabuse her of the notion that this was a first contact mission.  His orders were not to engage in first contact with the inhabitants of Sol III.  
  
They were to find out who – if anyone – had already done so.  
  
Spock returned to the Transporter room thirty-five minutes later.   
  
“I trust your beam-down will be discreet.”  
  
Spock nodded.  “Indeed.  The coordinates I have given you are for a remote, desert locality.  From there I will make my way to civilization.”  
  
“Very well,” said T’Lan.  She held her hand up, fingers splayed in the _ta’al_.  “Live long and prosper, Spock.”  
  
“Peace and long life,” Spock returned.  He stepped up to the beaming platform, bag in hand, this time clad in a loose fitting shirt and trousers made to his mother’s specifications.  
  
“Energize,” said T’Lan.  
  
Spock’s form vanished.  
  



	3. Celebrate the Earth and Sky II

**Celebrate the Earth and Sky II**  
  
Jim was in trouble.  He was seriously, seriously, in trouble.  
  
“Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck— damn it!”  He squeezed his hands into fists and violently resisted the urge to punch the control screen.  The light at the side blinked the alarming red of an engine gone wrong.  “Come on, come on, come _on_!” His fingers flew over screens as he flipped switches, trying to ignore the rising scent of smoke coming from the back of the plane.  
  
“Come _on_ you motherfucker,” he snarled into his headpiece.  “I refuse to die on a fucking routine training mission.”  
  
“Marcos to Kirk.  Kirk, do you copy?”  
  
“Fu-uck,” Jim said, “I copy sir, but the transmission’s fuzzy.”  
  
“Kirk, what’s going on?  You’re way off course.”  
  
“I think the nav system’s got a bug, sir,” Jim yelled into the comm.  The loud drone of static was starting to give him a headache.  He flipped another set of switches, and an alarm started to beep.  
  
“I thought you were a computer guy, Kirk,” said Marcos.  “Can’t you fix it?”  
  
“I’m trying, damn it!” Jim said.  The smell of smoke got stronger.  He began to cough.  
  
“Captain, you okay?  Captain?  I’m losing you here!”  
  
Jim swore, twisting around to look past the cockpit of the small plane.  
  
“Kirk!” came a vague crackle through the headset.  
  
“Sorry, sir!” Jim said.  “But it’s not just the navigation – bug got into the engine too— _shit!_ ”  
  
There was a loud boom.  
  
“Captain!”  
  
“Sir, the engine’s on fire,” Jim gasped, smoke starting to choke him off.  “I’m going down, I’m gonna use my shoot!”  
  
“Kirk?  Kirk!”  
  
But the only answer was the steady static of a dead radio.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Spock materialized in the middle of a desert.  This was not unexpected.  He had chosen what his mother deemed ‘The North American Continent” for his beamdown for several reasons.  For one, he was familiar with the language and presumably, the culture.  For another, it was the northern hemisphere’s summer, which would ensure Spock’s physical comfort during the first part of his journey.  Finally, the vast desert openness of the North American continent was more or less empty.  
  
His mother had gone toe to toe with the High Command when she found out about the particulars of Spock’s mission.   
  
_“You’re going to just beam down straight into Death Valley, are you serious?”_  
  
 _“The area is suitably deserted—” Spock attempted to reason._  
  
 _“And materializing just outside a city is suddenly not an option?” she demanded.  “It’s either city or the middle of nowhere?”_  
  
 _Councilmember Solkar cleared his throat.  “We cannot take the chance that Spock is seen,” he said.  “The mission at hand requires absolute secrecy.”_  
  
 _“Oh, great,” Amanda said._  
  
 _She was using sarcasm.  Spock could tell._  
  
 _Solkar couldn’t.  “It is well that you understand our reasoning, wife of Sarek,” he said, nodding._  
  
 _Amanda ground her teeth together, but she knew she had walked straight into that one.  Ugh, Vulcans!_  
  
 _“Death Valley is called that for a reason,” she said to Spock._  
  
 _Spock looked vaguely affronted.  “Mother,” he said, “I am Vulcan.  Death Valley cannot possibly be worse than the Forge. Having studied the environment, I surmise that it will actually be quite comfortable for one with my physiology.  And I do not intend to stay there – only to begin there.  I shall travel to the closest city and from there, to the capitol of the North American Collective.”_  
  
 _“San Francisco,” reminded Amanda._  
  
 _“Yes,” Spock said._  
  
 _“And what are you going to do there?”_  
  
Spock blinked his eyes against the yellow of Sol III’s sun.  The sky here was a deeper blue than on Vulcan, but the valley in which he had chosen to arrive bore a striking similarity to his home.  He could see mountains in the distance, and the land surrounding him was colored many shades of dusty tan, red and brown.   He looked up again towards the sky, and noticed a small, silvery crescent.   
  
Spock tilted his head at the sight.  Vulcan had no moon.  Interesting.  
  
According to his mother’s accounts, and the scans previously taken of the planet, Death Valley was located in the California Province of the North American Collective.  Conveniently, the capitol city of the North American Collective was in the same Province.  Unfortunately, San Francisco was not the nearest city.  San Francisco was to the west, but Las Vegas, of the Nevada region of the Rift Valley Province, was closer.  
  
 Spock double checked his mental map and, satisfied with his conclusion, began to head east.  Hopefully, he would encounter a town of sorts before Las Vegas (which he surmised to be several days’ journey if he did not locate anyone willing to give him transport).  However, his presence in a small town would likely be more noticed.  He preferred the anonymity of a larger city.  
  
He journeyed for four hours under Sol’s heat, a comforting dryness blanketing his skin.  In case of an (however unlikely) encounter with a local, he wore a piece of cloth tied around his forehead to hide the points of his ears and the Vulcan shape to his eyebrows.  He also wore a wide-brimmed hat to complete the disguise.  His mother had assured him that a human would not travel the desert without one.  
  
(Although to be completely honest, he had suspicions about her motives.  Something in the way she had clapped her hands together and beamed while stating, _“I’ve always wanted to dress you like a cowboy_ , _”_ made him question her choices regarding his attire.)  
  
He could do nothing about the Vulcan cast to his pale skin, or his lack of sweat.  If necessary, he supposed he could splash his form with water to simulate the appearance of perspiration.  However, the part of him raised to find water nothing short of sacred, rebelled at the idea.  
  
Well, he would do whatever the situation called for.  His Vulcan sensibilities would have to be second to the success of the mission.   
  
Estimating no more than three more hours until sunset, Spock pulled out a small compass.  Built to his mother’s specifications, it looked as though it was only capable of navigating relative to the planet’s magnetic north.   
  
He pressed on the side and a hologram of Sol III projected above the compass.  A blinking red light that matched his implanted transponder showed his exact location on the planet.  The compass itself also contained a beacon, which the crew of the Vulcan ship now on its way to Sol V might use to beam the item aboard.   
  
If the compass were in the possession of the VSS _Nirak_ , they would, ideally, be able to locate him.  Spock grimaced inwardly.  Or at least, locate the transponder.  Which, the mission unfolding in the intended manner, would remain in his arm.  
  
According to his mother’s information, Sol III was not the most idyllic of planets.  Captain T’Lan had done well in conceiving the backup plan.   
  
A high drone filled the air.  Spock froze, before quickly placing the compass back into his bag.  He looked around, trying to discern where the sound was coming from.  It was getting louder.  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something shiny plunging down from the sky.  
  
He swiveled to look and spotted what appeared to be a small craft hurtling towards the mountains at dangerous velocity.  Smoke billowed out of the rear.  His breath caught as, with seconds to spare, a black dot ejected upwards out of the craft before the doomed vessel smashed into the side of the mountains and exploded.  
  
Spock stood, stunned, unable to avert his eyes from the wreckage in the distance.  He blinked, and spotted the black dot he had seen ejected earlier, now connected to some sort of parachute, slowly drifting back down to the earth and out of sight behind a small series of jagged hills.  
  
Well, that was . . . unexpected.  
  
Spock’s lips curved downwards the tiniest bit.  He furrowed his eyebrows.  There was a high likelihood that the black dot he had seen was a survivor of the crash.  The craft’s pilot, perhaps?  He— or she— might be injured.   
  
Spock bit his lip.  _This is not your business_ , he told himself firmly.  _Mother said that only the military is permitted to fly non-passenger crafts.  The pilot most likely communicated his distress to someone.  If he is not dead already, he will be rescued._  
  
 _Probably._  
  
Spock turned his back on the scene, and took a step forward.  
  
 _“It’s called Death Valley for a reason, Spock.”_  
  
He stopped.  
  
Human physiology was more delicate than Vulcan.  Humans could rarely last more than three days without water.  Their skin was softer.  Their muscles were weaker.  By the time anyone came to rescue the pilot, it could be too late.   
  
_If it’s not too late already_ , murmured an insidious voice inside his head.  He ignored it, biting his lip, thinking.   
  
If he ingratiated himself to a member of the military, his chances of uncovering any information hidden from the general public rose considerably.  On the other hand, he would have to identify himself, potentially producing official documents, which was not possible.  The VSA’s attempt at forging him papers was admirable, but he highly doubted that they would hold up to any military security check.  
  
Also, he was an alien.  He imagined that this fact might make relations with the military somewhat difficult.   
  
Spock took a few more steps forward, away from the crash, then halted again.  
  
Difficulties aside, Surak taught the sanctity of all life forms.  Spock’s assistance might mean the difference between the pilot’s survival, and death.   
  
Spock closed his eyes briefly, and exhaled.  He pivoted and took off at a light jog towards where he had seen the alien craft go down, hoping that he was not making a huge mistake.  
  
Even at a marginally quicker pace, the sun was close to setting by the time Spock cleared the last of the jagged hills.  He approached the cooled remnants of the vessel with caution.  Stepping over hunks of twisted, charred metal, he bent to examine what he thought might be the pilot’s cockpit.  Spock touched gentle fingers to the fried control panel.  
  
The equipment was barely salvageable.  Given a few days and some tools, Spock might have been able to construct a distress beacon out of the raw material.  He sincerely doubted however, that any human would be able to do the same.  Additionally, his signal would be meant for a much different group of people than the pilot would likely prefer to be rescued by.  
  
Spock glanced around.  There was no sign of the pilot.  Not even a body.  Or the remnants of one.  
  
The sun sank lower in the sky.  Spock felt a twinge of concern.  If the pilot was not here, then he or she might have survived.  That did not mean they were altogether in the correct mental state.  Spock did not relish the idea of spending the night in unknown proximity to a frightened, and/or injured, alien.  Such emotions often resulted in violence.  His coming here was beginning to look less and less like a good idea.  
  
Spock closed his eyes, trying to picture what he had seen of the crash.  The black dot had flown upward, away from the craft, which had been heading northeast.  The pilot had therefore likely landed southwest of Spock’s current location, behind the hills.  Lacking any other viable plan, Spock turned on his heel and started south.  
  
Spock had barely walked twenty minutes before he stumbled, quite literally, over the pilot.  
  
He looked down.  The body at his feet, still strapped to the parachute that had likely saved his life, blinked at him with bleary, unfocused eyes.  
  
“Well, would you look at that,” he said in an accent Spock was not quite familiar with.  “A miracle.”  He smiled vaguely.  “I hope you’re not going to kill me, Mr. Miracle,” he said, and fainted.  
  
Spock muttered something suitable to the occasion, and attempted to check the pilot’s pulse.  After much fumbling around trying to locate it, he rested gentle fingers on the side of the man’s neck.  The beat was slow, much slower than his of course, but comparable to his mother’s, and steady.  He knelt down, and put his ear to the man’s mouth to check his breath.  Satisfied that he was not going to perish immediately, Spock sat back on his heels.  His fingers twitched over the man’s meld points.  
  
It would be a grave violation of rights to meld without permission.  Spock knew that better than most.  On the other hand, if the man had a brain injury, Spock needed to know.   
  
He felt around the man’s head and upper neck for signs of swelling.  He pried open a closed eye and, pulling the compass out of his bag again, flicked a switch and shone a light into the man’s eye.  The pupil appeared to dilate accordingly.  
  
“I’m awake,” the man rasped.  
  
Spock started, then controlled himself.  “I see,” he said neutrally, removing his hands from the man’s face.  
  
“I can sit up,” the man added.  He pushed Spock’s arm back and rose shakily to a sitting position.  “Ow,” he said.  He poked gingerly at his side.  “I might’ve cracked a rib.”  
  
Spock stared at him.  “How is your head?”  
  
The man rotated his shoulders, “Didn’t even hit it,” he said, with a disturbing amount of cheerfulness.  He frowned.  “I think.”  He shrugged.  “But all in all, not too bad off.”  
  
“You just crashed your aircraft,” said Spock, beginning to reassess his opinion on whether or not the human was, in fact, suffering from brain damage.  “You were unconscious.”  
  
“Yeah, that sucked,” the man said, nodding.  He grinned, a painful half-grimace, then frowned.  “And I wasn’t unconscious,” he added.  
  
“Yes, you were,” Spock said.  “You fainted.”  
  
“I did not,” the man protested.  “I just— closed my eyes for a sec.”  
  
Spock gazed at him, unblinking.  
  
“All right, fine,” the man grumbled.  “But cut me some slack, would you?”  He waved his arm in the direction of the crash.  “I just missed dying in a plane crash.  I’m entitled to be a little delicate for a minute.”  
  
Spock tilted his head, and opened his mouth.  
  
“Didn’t die though!  That’s something, isn’t it?  Although I gotta admit – crashing sucks like a bitch.  They never mention it’s that bad.”  
  
“I . . . suppose,” Spock managed.  A bitch?  What had a female canine to do with anything?  Spock feared he had grossly overestimated his English language skills if he was already having difficulty communicating.  
  
“Plus you showed up, all random,” the man added.  “So, pretty lucky.  I was starting to worry when the communicator wasn’t working.  But here you are.  So, where’s your car?”  
  
“Car?” said Spock.   
  
There was a very long pause.  
  
“Um, you do have one, right?” said the pilot, now rubbing his head.  
  
“Negative,” Spock admitted.  “I do not.”  
  
The man looked quite taken aback, if Spock was reading the expression correctly.  “So you’re just – here.  In the middle of nowhere.  Without a car.  What, did you walk?  Do you live here?”  
  
“I do not,” said Spock.   
  
“I think I might’ve hit my head harder than I thought.”  
  
Spock felt a pinprick of alarm.  “You said earlier that you had not struck your head.”  
  
The man glared at him.  “Yeah, well that was before you told me crazy shit like you just walked into the middle of the desert alone.”  
  
Spock wanted to protest that that was not, precisely, what he had said, but he kept his mouth shut.  Adding an explanation of Transporter technology would just make this meeting even more complicated.  
  
“So, what,” the man said.  He busied his fingers undoing the straps that held him to the parachute.  “Are you some kind of crazy, neo hippie trying to live off the land or something?  Are you a religious nut?”  
  
“I am mammalian,” said Spock.  “Not a nut.”  
  
The man gaped at him for a moment, then burst into a guffaw, “Ha!  Not a nut.  Sorry,” he said, wiping moisture from his eye with a grimy hand.  “You’re right, I deserved that.  So, what _are_ you doing here?”  
  
This, Spock felt as though he could answer.  “I am a traveler,” he said.  “My eventual destination is San Francisco.”  
  
The man tilted his head, “Frisco?” he queried.  “What the hell for?”  
  
“I am interested in,” Spock thought for a moment, “history,” he settled on.  “I hear there is a great library there.”  
  
“Well yeah, I guess,” said the pilot.  “If you can get access to it.  A lot of it’s restricted for civilians.”  
  
“Restricted?” repeated Spock.  “How peculiar,” he could not help adding.  
  
The man frowned, now prodding at his legs.  “What do you mean?”  
  
Spock hesitated.  “The restriction of knowledge – it is an alien concept to me.”  He winced as the word _alien_ left his mouth.  Perhaps he would have done better to just keep quiet.  
  
The pilot looked up from his assessment of his injuries.  “Really?”  
  
Spock could do nothing but nod.  A Vulcan did not lie.  
  
The man cocked his head, an almost calculating look in his eye.  “You must have been in the desert a hell of a long time,” he said finally.  “What’s your name?”  
  
Spock had thought long and hard about this question.  He was somewhat reluctant to use his mother’s family name, for fear her disappearance might be connected to him if his Vulcan nature were to be discovered.  However, the name was common enough, and familiar enough, that he had decided to risk it.  
  
The human was studying him more carefully now.  Spock realized he had waited too long, in human conversational norms, to answer the question.  He cleared his throat.  
  
“I apologize,” he said, swallowing.  “I was,” _what was the colloquialism again?_ “I was lost in thought, you might say,” he said.  “My name is Grayson.”  
  
“Nice to meet you, Grayson.  Do you have a first name?”  
  
“Yes,” said Spock.  _Of a sorts_ , he did not add.  
  
“You mind telling me?”  
  
“Um,” Spock said.  The name _Spock_ was not a common one on Sol III, he was reasonably certain.  Still, it was not outside the range of probability that it existed as a name _somewhere_ on the planet.  
  
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to make one up for you,” said the pilot.  He grinned again, but Spock could see the shadow of pain in his expression.  
  
“Spock,” Spock said quickly.  
  
“Spock,” the man repeated.  He held out his hand.  “Nice to meet you, Spock Grayson.  I’m Jim Kirk.”  
  
Spock blinked at the hand for a moment, before recalling that he was supposed to shake it.  He felt a mild sense of revulsion.  This human did not seem to be a bad being by any means, but that did not mean that Spock was up to rather intimate contact with him within less than an hour of their first meeting.  
  
Still, if it was the custom, as his mother had said . . . Steeling himself, and strengthening his mental shields, Spock gingerly shook the pilot’s – Jim Kirk’s, he reminded himself – hand.    
  
“Wow, your hands are really warm,” exclaimed Jim Kirk, pumping his arm up and down as enthusiastically any man who had barely escaped a potentially fatal plane crash, could manage.  
  
Spock finally escaped his grip, and stepped back a pace.  “We should seek shelter,” he said.  “And I still do not know the full extent of your injuries.  If we are to reach a medical facility—”  
  
“Whoa, whoa, time out,” said Jim Kirk, holding up his hands.  “I appreciate that you’re apparently trying to help me and all, but honestly?  If you don’t have a car, we’re probably not going to get very far.  When I flew over, I didn’t notice a lot of towns.  Or water.  Or, well.  Anything.”  
  
Spock clasped his hands behind his back.  “What would you suggest?”  
  
Jim Kirk bit his lip.  “I’m not sure,” he admitted.  “My plane’s navigation system was down even before the engine trouble, and I don’t even know exactly where we are.”  
  
“We are in Death Valley, California,” said Spock.  “Although I am uncertain of the exact latitude and longitude.”  He didn’t add the part about how his compass could certainly inform them as to their exact location.  It was better not to reveal too much to this human.  
  
“Huh,” Jim Kirk said.  He made as if to stand, then eased himself back onto the ground with a wince.  “Death Valley?  No wonder Marcos said I was so off course.”  He frowned, “They’re never going to find me here,” he half murmured, clearly unaware of Spock’s distinct auditory advantage.  “Not with the plane all banged up and exploded.”  
  
Spock crossed his arms.  “Mr. Jim Kirk,” he said.  “I intend to cross this land on foot.  I am somewhat of an expert on desert survival techniques.  If you do not believe that any rescue team will know where to find you, then I believe that your best chance of survival lies with me.”  
  
The human drew back and made a face.  “‘Mr. Jim Kirk’ sounds weird, man,” he said.  “Just call me Jim.”  
  
“Very well,” Spock said.  “Jim.  I believe that your best chance of survival lies with me.”  
  
Jim looked up at him, blue eyes assessing.  “You’re right,” he said finally.  He wiped sweat from his brow.  “God it’s hot,” he said.  “It must be in the upper thirties.”  
  
“Thirties?” Spock queried.  His mother had lead him to believe that any temperature below two hundred and seventy three was dangerously cold.  
  
Jim looked at him strangely.  “Degrees,” he clarified.  “Degrees Celsius.”  
  
“Ah,” Spock said.  “I— apologize,” he said.  “It has been an arduous day.”  
  
“Right,” Jim said.  He stretched his arms, and grimaced at the pain in his side.  “You’re telling me.”  
  
Spock recalled that his new companion had just, in fact, been in a crash.  “If you would not find it uncomfortable,” he said, “I would prefer to examine your injuries.”  
  
“Are you gonna need me to take off my clothes?” Jim asked with a smile.  
  
“Most probably,” Spock said, completely oblivious.  
  
“Well, just no funny business until after you at least buy me dinner,” Jim said, unzipping the top of his flight suit.  
  
“Funny . . . business?” Spock echoed, looking back up at him.  
  
Jim’s grin faded as he caught Spock’s blank look.  “Uh, sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.  “Just a bad joke.”  
  
“Oh,” Spock said.  “Yes, humor.  I see.”  
  
Jim continued to unzip his flight suit, moving more slowly now that he was taking it off his legs.  His breath caught as he tried to jerk it off his left leg.  “Ow,” he said.  
  
Spock was immediately at his side.  “Are you injured here?”  
  
Jim wrinkled his nose.  “My ankle must be sprained from the landing,” he grumbled.  “Damn, walking’s going to be interesting.”  
  
Spock pursed his lips, and poked at Jim’s ankle.  “It has begun to swell,” he confirmed.  “And appears somewhat discolored.  Are you capable of moving your toes?”  
  
Jim wiggled them.  
  
“How about your foot?”  
  
Jim slowly rotated his foot.  
  
Spock got to his feet.  He reached down into his bag, and pulled out a folding knife.  “It does not appear to be broken,” he said.  “I will bind it with some material, for support.”  He began to slash at Jim’s parachute.  
  
Jim opened his mouth, about to protest Spock’s treatment of his ‘shoot, then closed it again.  The thing had served its purpose after all.  It wasn’t like he couldn’t get a new one at the base.  
  
He watched as Spock carefully wrapped his ankle in a piece of the cut-off material.  What a strange guy.  The shadow of his hat obscured much of the top part of his face, but Jim could tell that his skin was fairly pale, and his eyes dark.  His nose was a little too large to be considered attractive, but it somehow fit his face and angular cheekbones.  Jim imagined that this had not been so during his mysterious rescuer’s teenaged years.   
  
“We should probably find shelter,” Jim said, after his foot was wrapped.  
  
“Indeed,” Spock said.  He seemed to hesitate, then spoke.  “I am in possession of a . . . tent, of sorts,” he said.  “I do not know if you would prefer . . .”  
  
Jim looked sideways at the bag Spock was carrying.  Lord almighty, it was like a woman’s bottomless purse, if he could fit a tent in there.  
  
Spock noticed him looking.  “It is very compressible,” he said.  
  
“Do you have like, a sleeping bag in there too?” Jim asked, more to see if he could rile Spock up than anything.  There was just something about him.  He was so— still.  So Zen, almost.  Like his face was a mask, instead of flesh and bone.  
  
“Potentially,” Spock said, trying to recall if _sleeping bag_ meant something other than what the mental image of the two words provided.  He had a foldable pallet, in any case.   
  
Jim raised both eyebrows.  “Okay.”  
  
“Perhaps you should rest,” Spock suggested.   
  
“No, I want to see how foldable your tent and stuff is.”  
  
“I would prefer it if you did not,” Spock said, aware of just how bizarre that statement probably sounded.  
  
“What?  Why not?” Jim was looking at him strangely again.  
  
“I,” Spock said.  He did not want to lie, but neither did he want to tell the truth.  He settled for a half-truth.  “I do not want you to judge my technique in setting it up.  I only came into possession of it recently.”  
  
“Um,” Jim said, his tone indicating that Spock’s response was still a bit on the odd side of confusing.  “All right.  If you really want.  It’s your tent.”  Jim closed his eyes, and lay back against the hard earth.  What a weirdo.  
  
Spock did not answer.  He was too busy yanking the shelter out from his bag.  He unfolded it briskly, and felt a moment of gratitude for his mother’s collaboration with the Vulcan Science Academy.  The shelter was domed at the top, and unfolded with very little of Spock’s assistance.  The material, though developed on Vulcan, mimicked a breathable polyester fabric common to items made on Sol III.  Spock was illogically proud of the zipper, which was not an invention found on Vulcan at all.  He had it on good authority however, that since the time that Amanda explained its purpose to a panel of VSA specialists, it had already been patented.   
  
Jim turned his head towards Spock, his eyes still shut.  “Can I open my eyes yet?”  
  
“Affirmative,” Spock said, after giving the entire structure a critical once over.   
  
Jim opened his eyes, then narrowed them a bit.  “You built that tent pretty quick for someone who was worried about it.”  
  
Spock gave himself a mental slap.  “To be honest,” he said, with the knowledge that what he was about to say was, in fact, skirting the definition of _honest_ to such a degree that it was in danger of falling into a large sea of _outright lie_.  Barely five hours on Sol III and already his moral code appeared to be unraveling.  It was a disgrace.  “My mother occasionally told me that I worry in excess.”  
  
This statement had nothing to do with anything that had just transpired, but Spock was hopeful that in his current state, Jim would take no notice.  
  
The pilot gave Spock another look that he was unable to fully decipher, before shrugging.  “All right,” he said.  “Well, I guess we should sleep then?”  
  
“You may if you wish,” Spock said, in what he hoped was a gracious tone.  
  
Jim cocked his head.  “You’re not going to?”  
  
Spock faltered for a moment.  As a Vulcan, he needed less sleep than a human.  However, the human did not know he was a Vulcan.  He did not wish to for the human to find out that he was a Vulcan.  Therefore . . .  
  
“Yes,” Spock heard himself say.  “I believe I shall retire as well.  I only meant to offer you the use of my tent.  As a courtesy.”  
  
Jim blinked.  “Thank you?”  
  
“You are welcome,” Spock said, confident at least in that rote response.   
  
“Okay,” said Jim, shifting a bit.  “So, I guess we’ll just, go to sleep then.”  
  
“Indeed,” said Spock.  
  
Jim looked at Spock.  Spock looked at Jim.  
  
“Seriously though.  Is there a sleeping bag in that thing?”  
  
“If you mean a foldable pallet,” Spock began.  
  
“A what?  A _pallet_?”  
  
“I apologize, was my use of the word incorrect?”  
  
“No, no.”  Jim waved his hand.  “It’s just, such an antiquated word is all.  _Pallet_.  You get that out of a textbook or something?”  
  
“No,” said Spock.  
  
Jim peered at him.  “English isn’t your first language, is it?”  
  
“What makes you think so?” Spock said carefully.  
  
Jim rolled his eyes.  Spock was not entirely clear as to the significance of this gesture, but his mother had used it on occasion to indicate exasperation.   
  
“Your accent is funny,” Jim said, voice blunt.  “And your speech cadence, or something.  _Pallet_.  God.”  He snickered to himself.  “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you,” he added.  
  
“You are not?”  Because clearly, he _was_.  Even Spock could tell.  
  
“No, no,” Jim protested.  “Just at what you said.  It tickled me for some reason.”  
  
Spock decided not to inquire as to the meaning of that particular colloquialism.  “There is a difference?” he questioned instead.  
  
“Kind of,” Jim said.  
  
There was another bit of an awkward pause.  
  
“So,” Jim said.  “I’m sorry to ask you this, but can you give me a hand to the tent?”  He indicated his swollen ankle.  “I don’t think I can walk too well.”  
  
“Oh,” Spock said.  “Yes.”  He cleared his throat.  “Yes, of course.  How might I assist?”  He sincerely hoped that his mother’s explanation of human cultural norms regarding touch and physical contact were accurate.  It would be most unfortunate if her information had been incorrect, or distorted.   
  
“Just,” Jim grunted, attempting to maneuver himself up.  “Just give me your hand for a second so I can stand up.”  
  
Spock did so, reminding himself that here, such contact meant nothing.  It was difficult.  Jim’s hands were dry and dusty from dehydration, and his calluses rubbed against Spock’s palm in a most disconcerting manner.  He inhaled sharply, but Jim did not seem to notice.  Spock hauled him to his feet, and Jim winced, holding his side and balancing on one foot.  He lay his arm across Spock’s shoulders.  
  
“Now, we hobble to the tent.”  
  
Spock nodded, and they began their journey.  It was only a meter or two, but Jim clearly felt every jolt.  Spock began to wonder how they were ever going to be able to walk out of this desert at all.  
  
He helped Jim lay down on his pallet, and sat down beside him, legs crossed.  He needed to meditate.  
  
“Man,” Jim said, “I wish we had some ice or something.”  He prodded at his ankle.  Spock had propped it up on his pack, which was itself resting on a rock.  
  
“Wishes are illogical,” Spock said, not really paying attention.   
  
Jim turned toward him, tilting his head.  “Well, I guess so,” he said.  “Still, it doesn’t hurt anyone.”  
  
Inwardly, Spock cursed at his own flippant answer.  “Indeed,” he said, expression giving away none of his inner turmoil.  Humans did not understand logic.  Why had he said such a ridiculous thing?  
  
“So,” Jim said.  “I guess this is good night?  Or were we going to tell ghost stories or something?”  
  
“Good night,” affirmed Spock.  Ghost stories?  How peculiar.  
  
Jim shifted.  “Good night,” he said again.  “I hope I don’t wake up to find out you’re actually a crazy person who killed me in my sleep.”  
  
Spock honestly . . . did not know how to reply to that.  “That would be highly . . .” he trailed off.   
  
“Illogical?” Jim quipped.  
  
“Yes,” Spock said.  “If I had wanted you to die, why would I bother coming to see to your well being?”  
  
“Good question,” yawned Jim.  He sighed.  “Anyway, not to be rude or anything, but I’ve had a pretty exhausting day.  I think I’ll actually sleep now.  Sleep well, even though I kind of stole your sleeping bag.”  
  
“All right,” said Spock.  
  
“Good night,” repeated Jim.  He closed his eyes.  
  
“Good night,” Spock replied quietly.  He did not close his eyes.  He breathed in deeply, then exhaled.  His gaze came to rest on the form slumped next to him.  What a fascinating species, he thought.  He took another deep breath, and a third.   
  
Meditation.  Yes, he would meditate on the unexpected events of the day.


	4. Celebrate the Earth and Sky III

**Celebrate the Earth and Sky III**  
  
“So, how come you never take off your hat?”  
  
Spock froze for a second, then kept on walking.  Behind him, Jim limped with an unsteady gait, leaning heavily on his makeshift cane.  
  
“Because I do not wish to,” Spock replied after a moment.  He pulled out his compass and peered at it. Adjusting his heading, he continued on.  
  
Jim was silent, clearly mulling this over.  “I guess that’s fair enough,” he replied finally.  
  
Spock allowed himself a small sigh of relief.  
  
“So, why don’t you _wish_ to take off your hat?”  
  
The corner of Spock’s eye twitched.  “Why must you persist in asking so many personal questions?” he shot back.  Ancestors be understanding, but the human never ceased!  
  
Jim laughed.  “My mom always said that annoyed her too,” he said, speeding up a bit to catch up to Spock.   “She set me to reading the dictionary as soon as I could, just to get me to stop pestering her.”  
  
“Wise woman,” Spock muttered, conveniently forgetting his own rather inquisitive childhood.  
  
“Okay, I’ll stop asking so many questions if it bothers you so much,” Jim said.  Spock turned around in disbelief.  Jim smiled, “How about you tell me about yourself instead?  Then I won’t have to ask.”  
  
Spock faced forward again, and took a few more decisive steps.  “The more you speak, the more quickly you will dehydrate,” he said.  
  
Jim rolled his eyes.  “It’s nighttime,” he pointed out.   
  
“We are still in a desert,” Spock retorted.   
  
Jim pursed his lips, “True,” he said, this time with a hint of gravity to his voice.   
  
They walked in silence for a little while longer, the quarter moon shining down through the clear sky.  Spock was hard pressed not to look for 40 Eridani, just to make sure it really wasn’t visible to the naked eye.  He knew where in the sky it was located, after all.  That should be sufficient.  The desire to see a more familiar desert in place of this one was likewise illogical.  He needed to set his focus on the present.  
  
Spock stopped again to check out their heading and Jim staggered forward to stand next to him.  He spoke softly over Spock’s shoulder, looking down at the instrument.  “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”  
  
“Yes,” Spock replied.  He put the compass away, fighting paranoia that Jim would be able to discern its other, more unusual functions.  
  
“Positive?” Jim pressed.  
  
“I have an excellent sense of direction,” Spock said.  _And a holographic map of your planet on my compass,_ he added to himself, but did not speak.  He had already endangered the mission by spending so much time in close contact with the human.  He didn’t need to make things any worse.   
  
“Huh,” Jim said.   
  
They did not speak for a long while after that, only continued on their long march.  
  
“The sun is beginning to rise,” Spock said, a few hours later.  “We should locate a suitably protected area to set up the tent.”  
  
Jim did not answer.  
  
“Mr. Kirk?” Spock halted, and looked over his shoulder at his human companion.  Jim was covered in sweat, his head downcast.  He walked unsteadily, even with the help of his stick.  “Mr. Kirk?”  
  
Jim tilted his head up.  “I’m fine,” he said.  His voice was dry and raspy.  He coughed.  “Could use some water though, please.”  
  
“We are rapidly running out,” Spock said, reaching into his pack and pulling out a water bottle.  He tossed it to Jim, who caught it one handed, belaying his clear state of exhaustion.   
  
“I know,” he said simply.  Their gazes caught and held.  Spock wondered if Jim knew just how low their water supply was really getting.  The water bottle was designed to collect and purify moisture from the air and deposit it in the bottle.  Sol III being an M-Class planet, ostensibly they should never run out of water.  The trouble was, there was hardly any moisture in the Death Valley to begin with.  It might have been sufficient for one Vulcan traveling alone, bred for the rigors of the desert.  But for a human and a Vulcan together?   
  
The odds were not in their favor.  
  
“We should rest,” Spock said.  “We cannot travel during the day.  It would prove fatal for you.”  
  
“What about you?” Jim demanded, although his obvious exhaustion made the question somewhat less intense than it could have been.  “I don’t see you wilting all over the place like a delicate flower.”  
  
“I am very used to desert climates.”  
  
Jim snorted.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I kind of noticed, although you’re as lily white as they come.  Where’re you from?”  
  
“There is a suitably shaded overhang over there,” Spock said, pointing slightly to the south.   
  
Jim shaded his eyes.  “I don’t see anything,” he complained.  
  
“It is there,” Spock assured him.  
  
Jim pursed his lips.  “I don't doubt you,” he said.  “God knows, over the past two days you’ve been nothing but trustworthy.  I’m just saying – I can’t see where you’re pointing at.”  
  
“It will become visible to you soon,” Spock said.  “I have exceptional vision.”  
  
“Modest, too,” Jim said.  
  
Spock ignored him, as they continued on.  In time, Spock’s overhang became apparent even to Jim’s eyesight, and they stopped below it.  Jim collapsed on his back onto the hot ground.  
  
“I’ve changed my mind,” he groaned.  “I’ll quit the service and become a farmer back in Iowa.  No aircraft is worth this shit.”  
  
Spock glanced up from where he was once more removing his tent from his pack.  “You are in the military?” he questioned.  
  
Jim looked sideways at him, propping himself up on his elbows.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Thought it was kind of obvious.  Civilians aren’t allowed to fly fighter planes.”  
  
“Of course,” Spock recovered.  “I was just wondering – what is your rank?”  
  
Jim closed his eyes.  “Captain,” he said, after a moment.  He pointed to the insignia on his flight suite, which he wore unzipped, the arms tied around his middle.  “See?  Two stripes.”  
  
“Fascinating,” said Spock.  
  
“Why so?”  
  
“I do not have much experience with the military,” said Spock.  
  
Jim opened his eyes and sat up, looking at Spock with renewed interest.  “But, everyone is required to serve,” he said, frowning.  “I went to school and joined the Force so that I wouldn’t have to join the army as an enlisted man.”  He peered more closely at Spock.  “Who _are_ you?”  
  
Spock looked away, pulling his hat more firmly down around his head.  “I am a traveler,” he said simply.  
  
“Bullshit,” Jim said.  “I bought that two days ago, when I was in shock from just crashing my plane, but there’s no way I’m buying it now.  Who are you, and what are you doing here?”  
  
“I am a traveler attempting to secure our safety,” Spock said, tightening the straps on the tent with a little more force than necessary.  “Any other information is my purview.  I am not required to share myself with you, _Captain_.”  
  
Jim held his gaze for a moment, blue eyes furious with frustration, then his shoulders sagged.  “Fine,” he said.  “You’re not required to ID yourself to me at all.  Although I’d hoped that – given what we’ve been going through together and all – that you’d be willing to trust me even a little.”  
  
“I do not know you,” Spock said.  “We only met two days ago.”  
  
Jim smiled a crooked little smile.  “Doesn’t matter,” he said, heaving himself off the ground to limp over to the tent.  “Can I go inside?”  
  
Spock gestured wordlessly.  Jim inclined his head, then slid inside.  A minute later, Spock joined him, crossing his legs as he sat.  He rested his hands on his knees, palms upturned, automatically starting the breathing pattern that would lead him into the first level of meditation.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jim starting to unwrap his sprained ankle.  He closed his eyes.  
  
“Why do you do that?”  
  
What?” Spock said, opening his eyes to see Jim peering at him.  
  
“Meditate so much,” Jim said.  He frowned, “That is what you’re doing, right?” he said.  “Meditating?”  
  
“Yes,” Spock said warily.   
  
“Thought so.”  Jim scratched at the red marks the wrapping had left on his sweaty ankle.  “Why do you do it so much?  Are you a monk or something?”  
  
“No,” Spock said.  “I am not a monk.”  
  
“Too bad,” Jim said lightly.  “If you shaved your head it would explain why you never take off your hat.” A beat.  “Sunburn, you know?”  
  
Spock did not find this humorous.  He closed his eyes again.  
  
“So if you’re not a monk, why do you do it so much then?” Jim pressed.  “You meditate every time we take a break, and I think you meditate half the night, too.  Don’t you ever sleep?”  
  
“Meditation clears the mind of day to day minutiae,” Spock said, not opening his eyes this time.  “It allows me to process any emotional responses throughout the day, and observe them in a neutral manner.”  
  
Jim propped his chin up on his hands.  “Why on earth would you want to control emotional responses?”  
  
“To maintain inner discipline,” Spock said.   
  
“Huh,” Jim said.  “No offense, but that sounds kind of— inhuman.  I mean, I’m all for having some emotional control and all, but all the time?  How do you enjoy anything?”  
  
Spock shrugged.  
  
Jim lay down and rolled over onto his side.  “Again, no offense,” he said to the wall of the tent, “But you’re kind of weird.”  
  
Spock inclined his head.  “Likewise,” he said.  “And there is no offense where none is taken.”  
  
“Good,” he heard Jim’s sleepy reply.  “Because seriously, you’re really weird.”  
  
As Spock listened to Jim’s breathing even out, he calmed his own breathing, determined to spend most of the night in a meditative trance.  He had much to think about.  
  
Through very little prodding on Spock’s part, he had managed to piece together a decent picture of Jim’s past.  The human he had inadvertently rescued hailed from a farming family.  His father had been killed in the South Pacific Conflict before Jim was even born.  He had joined the air force in order to gain a commission and to avoid being drafted.  This spoke to some level of wits on his part, Spock thought, to make the best of a bad situation.   
  
Still.  These facts, however fascinating a portrait of human culture they painted, did not pertain much to Spock’s goals.  Jim had made no mention of past visitations from alien life forms.  He was even hard pressed to speak badly about his own government, despite his admittance that yes, continuous warfare was probably bad for everyone and no, he didn’t suppose he really supported the idea of ruling over the entire planet.   
  
_“You do not believe that people can be trusted in terms of their own welfare?”_  
  
 _Jim wiped sweat from his forehead.  “Their own, maybe,” he said slowly.  “But other peoples?  I don’t think so.”_  
  
 _“I concerned myself with your welfare,” Spock pointed out._  
  
 _Jim’s gaze flickered to him.  “Yeah,” he said.  “But that’s different.”_  
  
 _“How so?”_  
  
 _Jim shrugged.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “Just is.”  He swallowed, “Can I have some water?”_  
  
 _Spock passed him the water bottle.  Jim took a long gulp, careful not to dribble any.  “I do not believe there is any difference,” Spock said, taking advantage of Jim’s momentary silence.  “I believe that you have been taught to think that.”_  
  
 _Jim swallowed the water quickly.  “Hey,” he said, “That’s kind of dismissive, don’t you think?  What gives you the right to judge me like that?”_  
  
 _“Am I incorrect?”_  
  
 _Jim glared at him.  “My opinions are my own,” he said.  “The government might not be the best, but at least it’s stable enough to put food on the table.  That’s more than what it was like before.”_  
  
 _Spock sensed enough animosity radiating from him to back off for the time being._  
  
Spock’s mind was drawn back towards the present, as he heard Jim draw in a rattling breath.  He turned to make sure the human was still sleeping and was satisfied when he saw the slack mouth and still-closed eyes.  He thought back to their conversation.  
  
It was not his right, he chastised himself, to interfere with the people of this planet.  He should not have pressed Jim so – even if Jim’s ideas were the polar opposite of his own, Surakian ideals.  As a Vulcan, he ought to respect Jim’s right to have different opinions from him, no matter if Spock did not exactly agree with them.   
  
Yet, he had spent enough time with Jim in close quarters over the past two days to be certain, is some regards, of Jim’s character.  He was intelligent, Spock knew, and his declaration that they should press forward only at night pointed toward at least a rudimentary grasp of logic.  Jim had also revealed that his decision to join the air force rather than, for example, the navy like his father, had stemmed in no small amount from a desire to forge his own path, and to travel roads rarely trodden.   
  
Spock could not understand why such a character would continue to believe what was, to Spock’s outside view, clearly propaganda.  Spock had done studies on Vulcan’s past, and on Romulus’s present.  He knew a party line when he saw it, and Jim’s words reeked of something learned by rote from infancy.   
  
Spock pondered.  Did he have any right to attempt to open Jim’s mind to other possibilities?  Or was the logical course to stay silent?  
  
On their third night of travel, Spock was forced to move forward at a slower pace than previously, for fear that he would leave Jim behind.  The human’s feet – good and bad – dragged against the pebbled ground, leaving long ribbons of scraped earth in his wake.  His voice was weak and raspy, and Spock wondered if he ought to offer him some other form of support.  Perhaps an arm, to assist in keeping him upright?  Yet, fear of what human cultural taboos he might run into if he were to offer his assistance, kept Spock from speaking.  
  
They stopped to rest.  Jim slumped to the ground, panting.  Spock knelt at his side, offering him water.  Jim sipped gratefully, turning haggard, dry eyes to Spock’s face.  
  
“Damn, you don’t seem affected at all,” he said.  He coughed, “It’s hot,” he added.  Somewhat redundantly, Spock thought.  “Even though it’s night, the ground is still so hot.”  He patted the packed, hard soil.  Spock followed the motion of his hand, and saw to his fascination that they were standing on a plain full of hardened, hexagonal mudcracks.  He ran his finger along the edges of the nearest one, marveling at its precise shape.  Mudcracks were rare in the Forge, although more common near the sea.   
  
“I grew to adulthood in a similar such environment,” Spock said, recalling that Jim had spoken to him.  “I am used to the heat.”  
  
Jim ducked his head wearily.  “Just because you grew up in it doesn’t mean it shouldn’t affect you,” he said.  “Hell, I grew up with Iowan winters, but that doesn’t mean I could just head on out to Siberia and be fine and golden.”   
  
“I do not understand,” said Spock.  “You would not be golden in the winter regardless of your location, because the winter clothing necessary for maintaining optimal body temperature would preclude tanning.”  
  
Jim stared at him blearily.  “I’m going to pretend that I just hallucinated that,” he said.  He blinked.  “Except, say ‘optimal body temperature’ again.”  
  
“Optimal body temperature,” said Spock.  
  
Jim’s mouth twisted into a grin, his lips cracking.  “It’s better when you say it,” he said.  
  
“What is better?”  
  
“Everything.”  
  
“I do not understand.”  
  
“Never mind,” Jim said.  He smiled.  
  
Spock looked at him helplessly.   
  
“So, shall we keep on trucking?” Jim asked, staggering to his feet.  He handed Spock back the nearly empty water container, and slapped him on the shoulder.  Spock jumped at the unexpected contact.  
  
“If you are still fatigued,” he started, but Jim was already hobbling his way ahead of him.  Spock watched him for a few seconds, then rose from his crouch, swung his bag back onto his shoulders, and prepared to follow, his expression unreadable.  
  
They stopped to set up the tent before the sun rose.  Jim sat on the ground, taking care with his ankle.  Once again, Spock had rejected his offer to assist with setting up the tent.  Spock paused in his work to see Jim looking up at the sky.  The constellations had shifted throughout the night, but the stars of the early morning were still visible and, Spock admitted to himself, quite spectacular from this viewpoint.  
  
“You know anything about constellations?”  
  
It took Spock’s brain a moment or two to catch up to the fact that Jim had spoken in the first place.  The human had hardly moved, still gazing heavenwards.   
  
“Little,” Spock said.  
  
Jim tilted his head, then he pointed, “I don’t know much about constellations,” he said, “But I know that’s Venus.  The morning star.”  
  
Spock searched his memory for the term Venus.  Ah, yes.  A name shared by an ancient goddess of a Mediterranean civilization, and the second planet in the Sol system.   
  
Spock joined Jim, sitting beside him.  “Venus was a Greek goddess?”  
  
“Roman,” corrected Jim, absently.  He frowned, “Well, kind of.  She was a Greek goddess too, but they called her Aphrodite.”  
  
“Over what tenets did she rule?” Spock queried, interested despite himself.  His mother had detailed some of Sol III’s history, but little of its mythology.  
  
Jim smirked a little.  “Love,” he said lightly.  “Beauty, sex, fertility . . .” he turned to Spock, “You know, all the interesting things.”  His eyes widened.  “Oh my god, tell me you’re not blushing.”  
  
“I do not blush,” Spock said, straightening his posture in affront.  He pulled his hat down further over his head.  
  
Jim reached out with teasing fingers.  “Yeah, you totally are,” he crowed.  “You know, I thought your Zen face was impenetrable, but I guess not—” Spock caught Jim’s hand before it made contact with his face.  Jim flicked an eyebrow at him.  
  
“I am not blushing,” he said, dropping Jim’s hand as though it was on fire.  In spite of his words, he put his own hand to his cheek.  To his mild horror, he discovered that his cheeks were, in fact, hotter than usual.  Spock felt an illogical surge of gratitude for the night, which made seeing the greenish tinge to his blush well nigh impossible.   
  
“Suit yourself,” Jim shrugged.  He leaned over and massaged his ankle through the wrappings, then rotated it a few times.  
  
“You seem to be very knowledgeable about mythology,” Spock said, more to direct the topic away from himself than for any other reason.   
  
Jim rolled his shoulders back and forth.  He stretched his hand over to one shoulder, and pressed strong fingers down on his aching muscles.  “I guess,” he said.  “Not really.  I was kind of a history buff in school, but not really classical history.  More like, the Industrial Revolution and the early 20th century.”  
  
Spock nodded.  
  
Jim twisted to look at him, “You know,” he began slowly, another one of those infernal little grins forming at the corner of his mouth.   
  
Spock had begun to recognize such expressions as precludes to some grave illogic.  He braced himself.  “Know what?”  
  
“Talking to you is kind of historical,” Jim said.   
  
Spock narrowed his eyes.  “What are you implying?”  
  
Jim’s grin grew wider.  “Oh,” he said.  “It’s just, your speech is pretty formal, you know?  Victorian, almost.”  He paused, “And you're a prude.”  
  
Spock drew himself up.  “I am not a . . . I am not.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jim drawled, “You kind of are.”  
  
“From what,” Spock said, despite being absolutely certain that there was no way he was ever going to come out on the correct side of this argument, “From what evidence do you draw such a conclusion?”  
  
“Well,” Jim said.  “Mostly because you blushed when I said the word sex.”  He winked.  
  
“I did not,” Spock asserted.  
  
“You’re doing it again,” Jim said.  “Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex.”  
  
Out of reflex, Spock’s hand flew to his cheek.  He glared at Jim as the human laughed.  “I do not understand your amusement,” he said darkly.  He was not sulking, he told himself.  Sulking was illogical.  Therefore, Vulcans did not sulk.  
  
“Oh, lighten up, Spock,” Jim said.  He got to his feet, wincing as he attempted to put some weight on his ankle.   He also prodded the sore spots on his side.  “I’m just teasing you.  You’re too easy to tease, all serious all the time.  I bet you were a real nerd in school.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Spock said, uncertain as to what the word ‘nerd’ even meant.  
  
“Well, that’s okay.” Jim patted Spock’s shoulder.  “I was kind of a nerd too.”   
  
“I suppose I ought to be gratified,” Spock said dryly.  
  
“Yep,” Jim said.  “Oh, ow.”  He stopped moving.  Spock quickly got to his feet.  Jim waved him back down, “No, no,” he said.  “Just the ribs.  I’m fine.  I think I’ll go lie down in the tent though.  You can do your meditating thing.”  
  
“Very well,” Spock said, easing his form back down to a sitting position.  It was true, he did need to meditate after another trying day.  However, his concern for Jim’s health prompted him to say, “If I can assist you in some manner, or ease your pain, please make me aware.”  
  
“Okay,” Jim said, crawling as best as he could into the tent.  He left the flaps open, to allow for a breeze, and to prevent suffocation when the sun was at its zenith.   
  
To the east, the sky was beginning to gain a pinkish tinge.  
  
Spock sat back down again fully.  What had possessed him to say such a thing?  It was illogical to request of the human that he interrupt his meditation.  Jim had been managing his pain without Spock’s assistance for nearly three days now.  Spock’s words seemed unfortunately emotional.  
  
 _You cannot afford to become emotionally compromised by any being on this planet,_ he told himself firmly.  _He is but a brief companion.  An emotional attachment could prove detrimental to the mission at hand._  
  
But it was difficult to maintain a proper distance, more difficult than Spock had originally anticipated.  Perhaps if he had not rescued such an outgoing and tactile human, this would not be an issue.  Perhaps if Spock had greater control over his curiosity.  Perhaps if Jim Kirk was not dependant on him for his very survival.  Perhaps if they had not been the only two sentient beings present, necessitating communication, necessitating some degree of teamwork.  Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps . . .  
  
Still _,_ Spock thought, at least he had caught the burgeoning attachment before it became too tangled.  It spoke to some hitherto unrealized laxity in his control, which was regrettable, but that could be rectified.  In any case, severing any attachment to Jim should not be too difficult.  What’s more, it was necessary to the future success of his mission here.  
  
That settled, Spock exhaled and drifted deeper into meditation.  
  
Shortly before midday, Spock withdrew from his meditation.  He stretched out his legs and rubbed his eyes.  Vulcans did not need as much sleep as humans, but that did not mean they did not need to sleep at all.  
  
Spock stood and strode over to the tent, dusting himself off as he went.  Satisfied that his clothing was relatively dirt free, he stooped and entered.  He stopped at the sight before him.  
  
Jim had sprawled diagonally across the tent floor, his body half on the pallet and half off.  His mouth was slightly open, and his eyes screwed shut.  His right hand fisted the folds of the pallet, while the left was drawn up against him protectively.  His dark blond hair was in sleep-tousled disarray and, unless Spock was mistaken, he was drooling a little.  
  
Spock’s nose wrinkled.   
  
Spock narrowly avoided tripping on Jim’s outstretched foot as he entered the tent more fully.  Movement silent as a whisper, he folded his legs beneath his body and sat on back on his heels.  He bit his lip, dark eyes pondering the best method of removing Jim to his allocated half of the tent without waking him.  
  
A complex endeavor indeed.  
  
Still, Spock thought, he possessed at least three times the human’s strength.  Surely such an action was not beyond his skill.  
  
Experimentally, Spock pushed at Jim’s uninjured leg.  It did not budge.  Very well.  More determined, he picked it up by the ankle, and moved it back onto the sleeping pallet.   
  
Jim mumbled something in his sleep and brought the leg up towards his center, knee bent.  He curled into himself more fully, and sighed.  
  
Spock’s lips thinned.  He attempted to move Jim’s other foot, but he could not get a proper grip on the injured ankle, for fear of causing further damage.  After a few more minutes of futile prodding, Spock slumped his shoulders and curled up into a ball on the other side of the tent, as far away as possible from Jim’s chaotic limbs.  
  
He awoke briefly late in the afternoon to notice, to his chagrin, that Jim had managed to somehow ensconce Spock in a deceptively slack grip.  He shoved half heartedly at the human, attempting to extricate himself, before giving up the entire exercise as useless, and shutting his eyes in resignation. He slept through the rest of the day until sunset.  
  
The following night was quieter than those previous.  Jim appeared even more fatigued than before, his visage gaunt and lips blistered.  His eyes however, remained as sharp as ever, occasionally glowering in Spock’s direction, much to Spock’s puzzlement.  It was not until their midnight rest however, that matters came to a head.  
  
“So, what did I do to piss you off so much?”  
  
“Pardon?”  Spock turned to face him.   
  
Jim planted his hands on his hips.  “You heard me,” he challenged, “You’ve been distant all day, hardly replying to anything I’ve said.  What gives?”  
  
“You have hardly spoken at all today,” said Spock, still mystified.  
  
Jim inclined his head, the motion sharp, “You know what I mean,” he said.  “You’ll hardly look at me, and only grunt when I talk to you.  What the hell, did you decide you didn’t like me after all?  Did I offend you that badly yesterday?”  
  
“I,” said Spock.  “No, you did not offend me.”  
  
Jim’s eyebrows rose, “No?” he repeated, “ _No?_ Then what the hell, man?”  
  
“I am sorry,” Spock said hesitantly, “I don’t understand—”  
  
“No,” Jim snapped, “That seems to be kind of a constant with you, doesn’t it?”  
  
Spock did not know what to say.  
  
Apparently, Jim did not need Spock’s verbal input to continue their discussion.  “I mean, really,” he said.  “You seem like a cool guy and all, but you’ve been treating me like shit all of a sudden, and I want to know why.”  He paced a little, the motion made more difficult by his sprained ankle and walking stick.  He stopped, his chest heaving, and spoke to some point over Spock’s left shoulder.  “I thought we were, hell I don’t know, getting to be some sort of friends, or something, you know?” he scrubbed at the back of his neck, “But Jesus, I hope you don’t treat your friends like this all the time.”  
  
Spock wanted to say, _Vulcans do not have friends_ , but he could not.  He settled for, “We only met four days ago,” and hoped that it would appease his emotional companion.  
  
It did not.  Jim turned red, “Yeah, but we’re also kind of involved in an ongoing life or death survival situation,” he retorted hotly, waving his hands towards the whole of Death Valley.  “That kind of means you move up from casual acquaintance to friend pretty quickly, you know?”  
  
Spock blinked.  He had not known.  “Oh,” he said.  
  
Jim glared at him.  
  
Spock tried again.  “I . . . apologize,” he said slowly, uncertain if such words would anger Jim even more.  “I was not aware,” he cleared his throat.  “I did not intend to treat you callously,” he said.  
  
Jim looked at him more closely, “Huh,” he said, a hefty twinge of anger still evident in his voice.  “And the reason you are is because . . . what?  I offended your sensibilities or something?  I hugged you in my sleep?”  
  
“No,” Spock said quickly.  “I just,” he stopped.  In point of fact, Jim was correct: Spock had been behaving more coldly to him than during the previous days and it was indeed intentional.  He had surmised that it was a necessary action to destroy any chance for emotional compromise regarding the human.   
  
However.  Spock’s lips thinned.  It appeared that such actions had negatively affected the human’s mental health, as well as any cohesive teamwork that the pair managed.  It seemed somewhat unorthodox, but might such an emotional connection (so long as Spock did not permit it to get out of hand and affect his own sensibilities) be advantageous in this unusual environment?   
  
“I apologize,” Spock heard himself saying.  “I am not angry with you.  You have not offended me.  I am simply . . .” he thought for a moment.  “Tired,” he settled on.  “I am very tired and it has negatively affected my behavior towards you.  Please forgive me.”  
  
There.  That sounded like a properly emotional human response.  Spock dared a glance at Jim’s face.  The human was biting his lip.  
  
“All right,” he said after a moment.  “Okay, I believe you.’  He hung his head a little and mumbled, “And sorry.  I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.  You’ve pretty much saved my life out here, and I appreciate it, I really do.  And I trust you, so.  Sorry.”  
  
“There is no offense,” Spock began.  
  
“Where none is taken,” Jim finished for him, a strange light in his eye.  “You say that all the time,” he explained, as Spock boggled at him a little.  “It’s kind of a nice saying.  Where’d you hear it from?”  
  
Spock hesitated.  “My father,” he admitted eventually.  “It is from one of his preferred philosophers.”  
  
“Huh,” said Jim.  “Aristotle?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Socrates?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Is it—”  
  
“He is not very well-known,” Spock interrupted.  
  
“Oh,” Jim said.  “Who, then?”  
  
Spock wavered for a moment, “Surak,” he said, unwilling to both antagonize Jim again by refusing to answer his question, or to lie about such a thing.  
  
“Oh,” Jim said.  “I’ve never heard of him.”  
  
“He is not common here,” said Spock, very aware of the irony in his statement.  
  
“Apparently,” agreed Jim.  
  
They travelled until the early hours of the morning.  As the sun rose, they rested beneath the shade of the tent, Spock once again observing Jim’s repose.  It was abundantly clear that the human’s body was close to betraying him.  In all honesty, Spock was surprised that he had lasted this long, in such brutal conditions as these.  He began to worry that the human would not make it out of the desert alive.  
  
Less than halfway through the next night, Spock’s fears became all too prophetic.  One moment, Jim was walking behind him.  The next, he had simply collapsed into a heap, Spock turning around only when Jim hit the ground with a dull thump.  
  
Spock drew in a quick breath, and hurried to the human’s side.  He felt for Jim’s pulse.  It was shallow and quick.  Heart racing, Spock lifted Jim up to a halfway sitting position, and pressed the dangerously empty water bottle to his lips, urging him to drink.  
  
Jim coughed and groaned, his head lolling a little against Spock’s thighs.  “Sorry,” he murmured.  “Sorry.”  
  
“Do not apologize,” said Spock.  
  
“‘S’probably better if you leave me here,” Jim slurred.  
  
Spock’s eyebrows drew together.  “I most certainly will not,” he said.   
  
“Makes sense,” Jim managed.  “I’m kind of dead weight now.  Will only slow you down.”  
  
Spock shook his head.  The human’s logic was faulty.  “By saving your life once, I have assumed responsibility for it,” he said.  “I cannot leave you here.”  
  
“What kind of . . . bullshit is that?”  
  
The skin around Spock’s eyes tightened.  “That is my cultural heritage,” he said icily.   
  
“Oh,” Jim coughed again.  “Sorry.  Still, I’d rather only one of us die here of dehydration and heat exhaustion.”  
  
Spock had to consciously clamp down on his controls in order to prevent from rolling his eyes.  Clearly his mother had been somewhat of a bad influence, if he was feeling the urge to do so to such a strong degree.   
  
He got to his feet, still supporting Jim under the armpits and around the middle.  “You will cease such melodrama,” he said, voice crisp.  “We are both leaving this place.  I will carry you.”  
  
“You’re crazy,” Jim whispered.  “That’s impossible.”  His eyes closed.   
  
Spock took a steadying breath.  He looked towards the horizon, estimating that civilization could not be more than a single night’s march away.   
Jim had said he trusted him.  
  
Spock took another deep breath.  He swung Jim’s limp form up into his arms.  
  
They would make it.  They had to.


	5. Celebrate the Earth and Sky IV

**Celebrate the Earth and Sky IV**  
  
Jim awoke to the very unexpected sight of a hospital room.  He blinked and looked around, willing his eyes to focus.  He tried to stretch, then realized that there was a needle in his arm.  He turned his head to his right and saw that it connected to a small tube, and a cart with several bags of fluid attached.  
  
“What the hell?” he tried to say, but what came out was nothing more than a dry croak.  
  
Even so, someone must have heard his pathetic attempts at verbal communication because no sooner had a minute passed than a nurse was peeking through the partition curtains into his section of the hospital room.  
  
“Oh, good,” she said, “You’re awake?”  
  
 _“Gugk_ ,” said Jim.  
  
“How are you feeling?” asked the nurse.  
  
Jim coughed, clearing his throat, “Terrible,” he managed.  God, his throat felt as though it had been attacked by rabid sandpaper.   His stomach and his head didn’t seem to be in much better condition.  
  
“Severe dehydration and heat exhaustion will do that to you,” said the nurse, adjusting something on the cart and making a mark on her data pad.   
  
Jim shifted, and resisted the urge to pluck at the needle in his arm.  “How did I get here?” he rasped.  
  
The nurse looked down at her data pad.  “You were airlifted here,” she said.  “Yesterday afternoon.”  
  
Jim thought for a minute, then slowly a name came to him.  “Spock? Is he alive?”  Jim attempted to sit up, then sagged against the pillow.  “He’s here?”  
  
The nurse’s brown eyes flickered away from Jim’s gaze.  “There was someone else,” she said.  “But I didn’t get his name.  He—” she looked towards the curtain, black curls bouncing.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I have to go.”  
  
“Wait,” Jim tried to say, but her flats were already clacking away against the linoleum floor.  His eyes felt heavy.  He closed them.  
  
The next time he awoke, his mind felt clearer.  He swatted around on the arms of the hospital bed, and found a button.  He pressed it, and felt his bed begin to rotate to face the curtain.  
  
“Oops,” he muttered.  He pressed another one.  This time, the top half of the bed slowly eased him into a sitting position.  He swallowed, his stomach rolling again at the movement.  
  
So, Spock had brought him out of the desert.  Even though Jim seemed to expressly remember, in a hazy sort of way, telling him to leave his dying ass behind.  
  
Damn, that was . . . actually really kind of heroic.  It was probably all over the news and stuff right now.  People loved that sort of shit.  
  
Earlier in his shifting, he had noticed a small screen in the wall to his left.  Jim peered at it.  Was it a touch . . . ? No, that didn’t make sense if he couldn’t get up to activate it.  It must be one of the newer ones.  Impressive, for a hospital.  They weren’t usually first in line to get state of the art equipment.  
  
“Computer,” he said, voice still scratchy and sounding rather unlike his own.  “Turn on.”  
  
“Acknowledged,” said a computerized voice from somewhere behind him.  Jim smiled as the screen blinked on.  
  
“Search,” he pursed his lips.  “Search media for recent stories.  Term ‘hero’ or ‘heroic.’”  
  
“Searching,” said the computer.  A small hourglass popped up on the screen.  A pause, then pictures began unfolding on the monitor.  “Recent stories filed under the term ‘hero’: One: a young girl suffered near fatal injuries in her heroic rescue of her brother’s cat.  Two: two members of combat unit three five six, deployed in New Zealand, were awarded—”  
  
“Stop,” said Jim, although his gaze had been drawn to the combat units in New Zealand.  His brother was supposed to be down there.  Jim shook the thought away.  “Search terms ‘Death Valley’ and ‘hero,’”  
  
“Searching,” said the computer.  Then, “One story:  Two geologists are being hailed as heroes after determining that the leak at the Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Depository will not effect the groundwater of Death Valley National Park.  Studies have shown—”  
  
“Stop,” Jim said.  “Delete all previous search terms.”  
  
“Working.”  
  
“Search the name ‘Spock Grayson,’ in recent media stories.”  
  
“Searching,” said the computer.  There was a pause.  “I am sorry,” it said.  “The term ‘Spock Grayson’ has not appeared in any recent media stories.”  A small frowny face appeared on the screen.  
  
Jim frowned too.  “Delete all previous terms.  Search term ‘James T. Kirk’ in recent media stories.”  
  
“Searching,” said the computer.  Jim tapped his fingers on his thigh impatiently.  
  
“One: Air force Captain James T. Kirk, believed to be deceased after crashing his fighter plane during a routine training mission.  The crash is believed to be due to an engine malfunction.”  
  
“Second story,” Jim commanded.  He ran his fingers through his hair.  Believed to be deceased?  Lord.  
  
“Two,” the computer said, “Captain James T. Kirk, thought to be killed in a plain crash six days ago, emerged from the borders of Death Valley National Park severely dehydrated, but alive.  He is currently being treated at a military hospital in Salt Lake City.”  
  
“Continue story,” Jim said.  
  
“Working,” said the computer.  Then, “Captain James T. Kirk of the North American Continental Air Force was believed to have been killed in an plane crash somewhere in the Rift Valley region on August 3rd.  At last radio contact with Captain Kirk, the captain expressed difficulties with both his engine and his navigation systems.  Military spokesperson Colonel Hayes has gone on record stating, ‘Captain Kirk’s death was an unfortunate accident.  He will be remembered fondly by his fellow servicemen, and we will continue to overview the navigation programming used in our fighter planes, to avoid such tragedies in the future.’”  
  
“Bull,” said Jim.  
  
The computer continued.  “Despite the Force declaring him deceased and beginning procedures for his funeral, Captain Kirk gave the country a shock when he walked _alive_ out of Death Valley national park, having apparently survived both a presumed fatal crash, and the rigors of the desert.  Captain Kirk was treated at a local hospital for severe dehydration and heat exhaustion, as well as injuries to his ribs and ankle.  He was later airlifted to a military hospital in Salt Lake City, for further observation.  He is expected to be released from the hospital in the next few days.  There is currently no word yet on how he managed to survive such brutal conditions. End story.”  
  
“Wait,” Jim said, sitting up a little more.  “That’s it?  What about – Captain Kirk was rescued by a tall, dark stranger who turned out to be some weirdo named Spock?  Where’s that part?”  
  
“There is no record of the name ‘Spock’ in recent media stories,” said the computer.  
  
Jim scowled.  Maybe it was an assumed name?  “Computer, search the term ‘Grayson’ in recent media stories.”  
  
“Searching,” replied the computer.  “There is no record of the name ‘Grayson’ in recent media stories.”  
  
Jim’s jaw worked.  An alias?  Maybe Spock had been in some trouble with the law?  Well, the guy hadn’t looked older than thirty at the most.  “Search the name Grayson for media stories in the past thirty years.”  
  
“Searching,” said the computer.  “There are twenty-nine media stories featuring the name “Grayson’ in the past thirty years.  Would you prefer them in list format?”  
  
“Start with the oldest,” Jim said.  He twisted his fingers together in thought.  Names and dates began to flash across the computer screen.  
  
“July 10th 2226,” said the computer.  “The one year anniversary of the failed shuttle mission to Europa.  Family and friends gathered at Houston Spaceport to mourn astronauts Daniel Apalla, Jagavi Hix, Amanda Grayson—”  
  
“Next,” said Jim, shaking his head.  
  
“December 12th, 2227:  Jonathan Grayson of the Missoula Grizzlies was hospitalized after suffering cardiac arrest during—”  
  
“Nope,” said Jim, seeing a picture of a red headed basketball player float across the screen.  “Definitely not.  Next.”  
  
“May 23rd, 2229: Grayson’s Grocers—“  
  
“Ugh, no,” said Jim, rubbing his temples.  “Computer, stop,” he said.  Then, “Search term ‘Spock Grayson’ on the ‘net.”  
  
“Searching,” said the computer.  The hourglass popped up again.  Jim massaged his temples with more vigor, trying to hold off a headache.  “Search term results in Dr. Benjamin Spock, American child psychologist in the 20th century,” reported the computer.  “Continue searching?”  
  
Jim sighed.  “No,” he muttered.  “Computer, end search.”  
  
“Acknowledged.”  
  
“Turn off.”  
  
“Acknowledged.”  The screen winked out into blackness.  
  
Jim stared at the wall, unseeing.  So apparently, Spock didn’t exist.  Or at the very least, he hadn’t given Jim his real name.  Jim struggled not to feel betrayed by this.  The dude had, after all saved his life.  He was entitled to privacy.  
  
Still, Spock had struck Jim as being the very honest sort of weirdo.  It didn’t make sense for him to give Jim a first name that wasn’t even very common.  He could have gone with Carl Grayson or Dave Grayson, and Jim sure as hell wouldn’t have known the difference.  Plus, according to the news, Jim had survived Death Valley all by his magical self.  That didn’t make any sense either.  The news should have at least mentioned that _someone_ had carried him to the hospital, even if he just dropped Jim off and then vanished.  
  
It was— weird.  Jim began to feel a little twitchy.  
  
Maybe Spock was a top secret agent in the government who didn’t even have an ID?  
  
No, Jim scoffed.  That was ridiculous.  
  
A cold lump started to grow in his stomach.  He hadn’t really known anything about Spock, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t someone dangerous.  Or someone the government thought was dangerous.  Jim bit his lip and tightened his hands into fists until the nails started to dig into his palms.  
  
Maybe they had taken him.  
  
Jim squeezed his eyes shut.  No, that was stupid.  Why would they take some hippie trying to cross Death Valley on foot alone?  Drug lords didn’t pull that shit, and neither did spies.  
  
 _“There is no record of the name ‘Grayson’ in recent media stories.”_  
  
Jim slammed his left hand into the mattress at his side.   Fuck.  He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but if the government had taken Spock, it had to be for a good reason, right?  
  
He ruthlessly crushed a memory that rose up at the thought.  _That_ had nothing to do with this.  
  
If they had Spock, it wasn’t his business, right?  
  
 _“By saving your life once, I have assumed responsibility for it.  I cannot leave you here.”_  
  
Fuck, he didn’t know what to do.  
  
Another nurse came and went, checking his vitals, and disconnecting him from the IV, but telling him to stay in bed.  He turned on the computer again, and requested to watch a rugby game, but couldn’t garner much interest.  He started a movie – a recent film about a scientist who falls in love with a cloning experiment – and turned it off in disgust.  After a few hours, he slept.  
  
But even in sleep he could not find peace.  He dreamt twisted dreams with Spock’s face close to his, his black hair falling from underneath his headband and hat, sweeping across Jim’s face, whispering something Jim couldn’t catch.  He was hot as if burning, and then cold, freezing cold down his bones.  His ribs ached, his ankle throbbed, and his head spun.  
  
When he awoke, there was a suit in his room.  
  
“Captain James Kirk?” said the suit.  
  
“Yeah,” said Jim, scrubbing his hand across his face.  The suit’s face was stern and clean-shaven, his pepper gray hair slicked back and cut short.  Jim woke up a little further, and decided that this probably wasn’t a social call.  
  
“This is just a social call,” said the suit.  
  
Okay, definitely not a social call.  Jim pressed the button to sit his bed upright, and then the other button to swivel it around to face the partition curtains.  
  
“Sir?” he said, pretty sure he was now in the presence of some sort of government official.  It never hurt to play it safe, regardless.  He’d met guys like this before.  Once.  
  
But that was a long time ago.  
  
“No formalities here, Captain,” said the suit.  He stepped closer to Jim’s bed, and gestured to a folding metal seat next to it.  “Do you mind if I sit?”  
  
“Go ahead,” said Jim.  He folded his hands across his lap, attempting to look like the model citizen, even if he was wearing hospital pajamas.  
  
“I assume you have been watching the news reports,” the suit said.  He stopped.  “By the way, Captain.  My name is Jason Myers.  I work for the Governmental Bureau of Investigations.  I hope this puts you more at ease.”  
  
“Pleased to meet you,” Jim said, smiling through what he hoped was a very convincing lie.  
  
“Likewise.”  Myers’ piercing blue eyes bore into Jim’s own.  
  
“So,” Jim said.  “Can I help you with something?”  
  
Myers leaned forward, “Indeed you can, Captain Kirk,” he said.   He produced a recording device.  “I would like you to state everything that you know about the man who brought you here.”  
  
So the feds _were_ after Spock.  Or they had already caught him.  Jim swallowed.  If he played this wrong, he could be in some deep shit himself.  
  
He gathered his wits together.  “Um,” he said, aiming for casual.  “Not much.  Just the name, really.  Said his name was Spock Grayson.”  
  
Myers narrowed his eyes.  “Really.”  
  
“Um, yeah,” Jim said.  He scratched the back of his neck.  “I mean, he bound up my leg and carried me to a hospital, so he seemed like a decent sort of guy.”  
  
“I see,” said Myers.  
  
“He could have left me to die,” Jim said, voice coming out sharper than he had intended.  “But he didn’t.”  
  
Myers wrote something down on his data pad.  “Did he ever talk about what he was doing in Death Valley?”  
  
“No,” Jim said.  
  
Myers twirled the stylus between his fingers.  “You sure?  You boys didn’t talk at all?”  
  
“I said no,” Jim said.  God, feds really pissed him off sometimes.  
  
“Did he behave noticeably oddly at any point in time?”  
  
“I mean, a guy crossing Death Valley on foot just for the hell of it is kind of automatically odd,” Jim said.  “But he didn’t like, sacrifice any goats or try to get me to join a cult or anything.”  
  
“Mr. Kirk,” Myers started, crossing and uncrossing his legs.  
  
“Captain,” interrupted Jim.  “I prefer to be addressed by my rank, please.”  
  
“Captain,” said Myers.  “If you are perhaps, protecting Spock Grayson out of some misplaced loyalty for saving your life, you might want to think about which country you owe your allegiance to.”  He pointed at the wall, which bore a small, embossed insignia of the North American Collective.  
  
Jim’s eyes travelled over the picture.  A golden eagle, wings outstretched and talons bared, loomed over a small mountain range.  Above the eagle, a rifle and a saber crossed each other.   Around the main picture circled the words _Loyalty, Victory, Honor._ He turned back to Myers.  
  
“I’m not protecting anybody,” he said.  
  
Myers pursed his lips.  “I should hope not,” he said quietly, and stood.  “Spock Grayson is a dangerous criminal and a spy.  If you are withholding any information from us, you may be viewed as an accomplice.”  
  
“I’m not withholding anything.”  
  
Myers gave him a long look.  “We shall see,” he said.  He turned to go.  
  
Jim debated with himself for a moment.  Then, unable to resist, he asked, “What did he do?”  
  
“Pardon?” Myers lifted the partition curtain to look back at him.  
  
“Spock Grayson,” Jim repeated.  “What did he do?”  
  
Any expression that might have been on Myers’ face, disappeared.  “That is none of your concern,” he said shortly.  He closed the curtain with a snap.  
  
Jim reared back a little in surprise at such an abrupt departure, then centered himself, wriggling deeper into the spongy mattress and thin blanket.  He suddenly felt colder than before.  
  
So the feds wanted Spock for something.  Okay.  And whatever it was, Jim was willing to bet that it had nothing to do with what Myers had just told him.  
  
Okay.  And honestly, it was probably, really, none of his business.  Especially if he wanted to keep his career, or even some semblance of it.  
  
Okay.  
  
And also, if he tried to make it his business, he’d probably end up in some sort of rehabilitation camp.  Or worse.  If the Bureau was involved and they had shut down the news about it, it had to be bad.  
  
Fuck, he was already in trouble.  If the Bureau had already sent someone to check him out, then they already had suspicions about him.  He scowled.  He hadn’t even _done_ anything!  
  
This was all Spock’s fault.  
  
Spock had saved Jim’s life.  
  
Fuck, this was all so messed up.  
  
Jim’s frustration continued to plague him throughout the rest of his hospital stay.  He was discharged a few days after the visit by the Bureau, among chastisements to rest, stay off his ankle, and drink more fluids.  He left out of the front door, and immediately regretted it when he was swarmed by curious reporters.  He refused to answer any of their questions, pleading exhaustion, and that he just wanted to get back to his base.  
  
Once back however, General Chase immediately took him aside.  
  
“Jim,” he said, motioning him into his office and indicating that he shut the door.  Jim felt an immediate premonition of bad things to come.  
  
“Yes, sir?” he said.  
  
“Sit down, son,” said Chase.  The fluorescent light gleamed off the dark skin of Chase’s bald head, and he smoothed down his impressive handlebar mustache as he watched Jim sit in the chair across from his sturdy oak desk, eyes forward.  
  
Chase stood and began to pace.  “Look,” he said, “I’m in kind of a bad position here.”  Jim stayed silent.  Chase turned to look at him.  “The Bureau’s been asking all sorts of questions— about your record, your extended family, any _history_.”  
  
Jim winced a bit at the term _history_.  “Did they mention why?”  
  
Chase shook his head.  “No,” he said shortly.  “They didn’t.  But I can make my own guesses.”  
  
Jim felt a bubble of panic.  “They can’t arrest me, can they?  Not for doing nothing?”  If they could, then hell— what had been the point of joining the air force anyway?  If the Bureau could get to him . . .  
  
“They can’t,” Chase said, voice firm.  He slapped his hand down on the desk.  “We’ve got your back for now.  They won’t mess with us directly.”  He slumped back into his seat, across from Jim, and folded his hands together atop the desk.  “If they want whatever information they think you’ve got though, they might try to get an extraction order straight from the Congress.  We can’t do anything if they do that.”  
  
Jim swallowed.  “Permission to speak freely, sir.”  
  
“Granted.”  
  
“But I didn’t even do anything!” Jim burst out.  “I told them what happened in the desert— they just want to know about some guy—“  
  
Chase held up his hand.  “Stop.  Whatever you’re going to say, stop.  I can’t know anything about it.  It’ll just make things worse.”  
  
 _“Fuck,”_ Jim buried his face in his hands.  
  
“Look, Jim.  I like you.  I think you’re a fantastic pilot and you have a good shot at making it up in the ranks.”  Chase leaned forward, brown eyes locked with Jim’s blue ones. “But if the Bureau’s taken an interest in you, for whatever reason, it’s going to mean trouble.”  
  
“I know,” Jim said.  He hung his head.  Fucking Spock, this was all his fault.  His life was falling to pieces before his eyes.  He could guess what was coming next.  
  
“I’m placing you on leave,” Chase announced.  “You’re to go home and rest up, while the higher ups try to keep the Bureau from getting their claws on you.”  
  
“I didn’t think they cared,” Jim said, not at all snidely.  Everyone knew that mandatory leave was the first step before discharge.  
  
Chase’s gaze darkened.  “They don’t like poachers.”  
  
“Right,” Jim said.  He stood, and Chase stood as well.  Jim saluted.  “Well,” he said, trying for light.  “Guess I’d better go pack my things.”  
  
“Yeah,” Chase said.  He reached out, and grasped Jim’s hand to shake.  “Take care, son,” he said.  “I hope to see you back on the base.”  
  
“Me too.”  He choked a little as Chase suddenly pulled him into a hug, then stilled as the other man spoke into his ear.  
  
“The Force answers to the same authority as the Bureau,” Chase whispered.  “If we can’t protect you, then I suggest you find someone who _can_.”  He released Jim, who stepped back and met his eyes searchingly, before snapping to attention.  
  
“Yes, sir.”  He saluted.  
  
Chase nodded, and saluted as well.  “Just something to think about,” he said, after his hand dropped.  Jim inclined his head, and turned towards the door.  “And Jim,” Chase said.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“Be safe,” Chase said quietly.  He straightened.  “Dismissed.”  
  
After the meeting with General Chase, Jim headed towards his locker and began to gather his things.  He looked up when a form slammed into the wall next to him.  
  
“Didn’t go well with the General?” came a voice.  
  
“Hey, Gary,” Jim said.  He indicated his half filled suitcase.  “How do you think it went?”  
  
“Hell,” Gary said, eyes widening at the sight, “They didn’t discharge you, did they?  Just for crashing a plane with a faulty nav. system?  That’s bull!”  
  
“Nah,” Jim said, pulling out his antique copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ , followed by _Oliver Twist_ and _The Lost World_.  “Here, hold these.”  He stacked them in Gary’s arms.  Gary rolled his eyes as Jim buried deeper into his locker in search of the rest of his stuff.  
  
“You have too many books.”  He peered at _Oliver Twist_ , “Isn’t this one on the banned list?  You should get rid of it, you could get in serious trouble, man.”  
  
“Never,” came Jim’s rebellious retort.  A blind hand waved _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_ in front of Gary’s face.  Gary sighed in exasperation, and grabbed it.  He set the whole stack down on the ground.  
  
“So?  What happened?”  
  
The half of Jim’s body that Gary could see, stilled.  He withdrew from the locker.  “I’m on leave until further notice,” he admitted.  
  
Gary gaped.  “What?  You?”  
  
Jim grimaced.  “Shut up, would you?  I don’t need the whole base to find out about this.”  
  
Gary took a step back, and sat down on Jim’s bunk.  He noted that it had already been stripped of its sheets.  “They’re going to notice you and all your shit’s gone,” he pointed out.  
  
“I know,” Jim said.  
  
An awkward silence fell.  Gary picked at the unraveling corners of Jim’s mattress.  Jim kept his eyes averted and pulled out several more books, which he placed in a stack next to the others.  
  
“So, why?” Gary said finally.  “Why are they placing you on leave?”  
  
The corners of Jim’s mouth turned down.  He couldn’t tell Gary the whole truth.  Someone was sure to find out about it, and he didn’t want to be responsible for putting Gary’s ass on the line.  
  
“The place where I crashed,” he settled on.  “Some other,” he hesitated, “some other _organization_ had some stuff there.  Important stuff, I’m guessing.  Anyway, they didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t know anything about it.  So,” he shrugged.  “I’m on leave until the Force sends their asses packing.”  
  
Gary spat at the mention of another _organization_.  Everyone knew that as much as the different wings of the military resented each other, they all hated the Bureau with twice as much venom.  
  
“Shitty,” Gary said.  
  
“Yeah,” said Jim feelingly.  He knelt down, and placed his books carefully in his suitcase, before zipping the whole thing up.  He stood, and he and Gary clasped hands.  “So, I guess I’ll see you around sometime.”  
  
“Yeah.”  Gary shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants.  “What will you do?”  
  
Jim lifted his shoulder.  “Go back to Riverside,” he said.  “Lounge around, drink, avoid farm work.”  He winked.  “Maybe hack the Navy’s databases when I get bored.”  
  
“Hell, you’d better,” Gary said fervently.  “We still owe them big for that, what name did he use, you know . . .”  
  
“ _Ruski_rulz41_ ,” groaned Jim.  “Fuck, the hot water malfunctioned for a solid week!  I’ll make sure they all end up navigating into the Bermuda Triangle.”  
  
“I’ll hold you to it,” Gary said.  They smiled at each other until Jim dropped his gaze.  
  
“Well,” he said.  “I guess I’m off.”  
  
“Yeah,” said Gary, clearing his throat.  “See you.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jim said.  He turned, lugging his suitcase behind him, and headed out the door to catch his transport. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Riverside was exactly as exciting as he had expected it to be.  And by that, he meant not at all.

Seriously, it boggled the mind how the small town had managed to stay a small town for more than four hundred years while the rest of the cities around it had grown and shrunk and been bombed out in the wars.

Jim banged out of the pub, and walked along the path toward the river.  He was a little tipsy, but not drunk, and his thoughts swirled through his mind like chaotic and bothersome little wisps.  He reached the river, leaned on a handrail, and scowled down at it.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Spock.  What could the guy have possibly done to piss off so many important people?  He hadn’t seemed like a bad guy, not at all.  In fact, if Jim was honest with himself, he’d been kind of intrigued by the very aura of, well, _innocence_ that Spock seemed to exude.

Of course, Jim knew that looks could be deceiving and so could words.  Still, what point would there have been in lying to Jim about what kind of person he was – and then continuing to carry out the charade – for a whole week in the desert?  That was a hell of an effort to trick one guy who he could have just left out in the sun to die anyway.

Jim grasped the cool steel of the handrail, and rocked back on his heels, looking up to the sky.  The clouds hid most of the stars, but Jim could just see the winking of Orion’s belt.  His mouth cracked in a wry grin.  Seriously, Spock had blushed at the word _sex_ for god’s sake.  That was not the behavior of a hardened war criminal.

He sobered, and rocked forward again to drape his arms across the rail.  Of course, it didn’t matter what Spock had done— or hadn’t done.  Or what he knew.  The feds probably had him at this point, and there was nothing Jim could do.  Besides, he thought, suddenly angry, it was entirely Spock’s fault that Jim’s life had suddenly blown up in his face.

He puffed up his cheeks and blew air out at the river.   Yeah, and it was also entirely Spock’s fault that Jim was even alive to have his life messed up.  Fuck, was that _guilt_ he was feeling?

Jim let go of the railing and swayed his inebriated self over to a bench, where he plunked down with a shudder.  He rested his head in his hands.  Spock had saved Jim’s life, and he hadn’t seemed like such a bad guy.  But apparently the feds thought he was, and they wanted to arrest Jim just for talking to Spock.  Or being in contact with him.  Whatever.  And the only thing standing between Jim and the Bureau was Jim’s branch of the military not liking their guys being picked off by a rival.  And Jim was really starting to suspect that the Bureau wasn’t going to wait around much longer, and he was kind of a sitting duck hanging out in Iowa and _what the fuck had Spock done, anyway_?

Jim let out a heartfelt groan, and shook his head back and forth.

Poor Spock.  What must he be going through?  Maybe the Bureau had the wrong guy, even.  It had happened before, it wasn’t impossible.

Jim entertained a vague fantasy of Spock showing up at his front door, arm in arm with Myers.  They would come into his house, and explain how it had all been a mistake, and then eat tea and cake.  And then give Jim a promotion, just for all the shit they had put him through.  And Spock would do that weird smiley thing with his eyes, and not get any of Jim’s references and it would be awesome.

Jim shuddered as the fantasy went from tentative to absurd, and he spat on the ground to rid himself of the disturbing sugary sweetness of it.  And also because his mouth tasted like stale beer.

Jim staggered to his feet.  If his mind was starting to act like he was both thirteen years old and a girl (tea and cakes?  Really?), then it was definitely time to go to bed.  He went back into the pub.

“I’m sober enough to drive,” he told the bartender.

She looked at him.  “No, you’re not,” she said, pocketing his keys.  “Seriously Jimmy, I can tell.  You can just sleep on the couch.”

“But I want to go home,” he argued, placing two hands against the counter.  “Come on, Tam.”

“I said no, Jim,” she replied.  She turned around and grabbed a glass of water, her blonde ponytail swishing.  She plunked it on the counter, and looked down her button nose at him.  “Drink this,” she ordered brusquely, wiping her hands with a rag.  “Then go to the back room and sleep it off.”

“Couldn’t you just . . .” Jim waved his hand, “Give me a ride or something?  Or my keys?  So I could drive myself?”

Tam narrowed her eyes at him.  Jim raised his arms in front of his face to shield his soul and, shrinking under her gaze, drank the water down.

“I’ll just go sleep on the couch then,” he said, sliding off the stool, limbs watery.

“Good choice, Jimbo.”

“G’night,” he grunted, palming open the door to the back and collapsing onto the worn leather couch in the back of the room.  He had slept on it before, and it was pretty comfy.  In fact, he had had sex on it before.  With Tam’s sister.  And also with Tam.

He tried really hard not to think about who else might have been having sex on the couch.  Before long, he had drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

Jim’s rest was rudely disturbed at – he squinted his eyes to make out the clock on the wall – three thirty-four in the morning, by a hand shaking his shoulder.

“Jim!” came Tam’s frantic whisper.  “Jim, wake up!  Wake the fuck up!”

“Whaa?” Jim managed, covering a yawn.  He blinked sleepily at Tam, who held only a flashlight.  “Wassamatter?”

“Your house blew up,” Tam said.

Jim felt as though an icy river had just washed through his entire body.  He sat up so quickly that he and Tam nearly banged heads.  “WHAT _?_ ” he demanded.

Tam nodded, “I heard the sirens, and it’s all over the graveyard news.  And—” she hesitated.

“What?” Jim asked, his voice harsh.  He gripped her forearms.  “Did something else happen?  Spit it out!”

“Let go of me, you asshole,” Tam snapped, breaking out of his hold.

“Sorry,” said Jim.  His throat felt thick somehow.  Something hot pricked at the corner of his eyes.  His house?  Had blown up?

Tam’s face softened a little.  “Some guy called for you,” she said.  She placed a hand on Jim’s shoulder, and squeezed.  “Said his name was Mitchell.”

“Gary,” whispered Jim.  He looked up at Tam.  “What did he want?”

She swiped at the dark circles under her eyes, “He said, ‘tell Jim that the big dog wants him to know time is up.  They’re coming for you.  You’ve got to get out.’  And then he just hung up.”  She laughed a slightly hysterical laugh.  “What cryptic, daytime T.V shit is that?  Do you even know what that means?”

Jim’s mind raced.  His crew liked to joke that General Chase was, ‘the big dog’ on base, mostly because Chase liked to breed Rottweilers.  He was always going on about how the Navy was a bunch of pussies because his friend, Admiral Archer, liked to breed Beagles.  Chase must have known Gary knew where to contact Jim.  He must have told him to send a warning before—

Jim looked at Tam, “I’m glad you wouldn’t let me drive home drunk last night,” he told her sincerely.  “Really, really glad.”

Tam put her hands to her mouth in horror.

“I’ve got to go,” Jim said, fishing on the ground for his boots and on the table for his leather jacket.

Tam watched him.  “Where will you go?”

“I dunno,” Jim replied, shoving his feet into his boots and wriggling his toes.  “But I can’t stay here, can I?”

Tam shook her head.  Then stopped.  “Wait,” she said, voice hoarse.  She disappeared back into the front room of the bar, then reappeared a few seconds later and pressed an ID chip into his hands.

Jim looked at it.  “Tam, I can’t take your brother’s ID.”

She shook her head, stubborn.  “Take it,” she said.  “He’ll understand.  You guys look enough alike anyway.  You can pay us back later for anything you buy with it.  We can just say you stole it or something.  It should work for a week or so.”

“But,” Jim said.

Her eyes flashed.  “If you use yours, they’ll pick you up right away,” she said.  “Just fucking take it.”

Jim nodded, and closed his hand around it.  “Thanks,” he said, placing it into his jeans pocket.

“What about your data pad?” she asked.

“What about it?”

“They can track that too.”

Jim smirked a little.  “Please, give me some credit.  No one can track my data pad.  Not even the—” he stumbled over the word, “not even the guys who are after me,” he finished.

Tam gave him a searching look, then pressed herself against him in a quick hug.

“Wear a hat,” she said.  “And sunglasses.  That’ll confuse the cameras a bit.  And stay off the main highways.”

“I know,” Jim said.  “Don’t tell them I was here.”

“I’m not stupid,” she replied.  “No one in this town’ll give you away.”

“Yeah.”  Jim put his jacket on.  It really was the only advantage to growing up in an insular town that distrusted outsiders, with a special disdain reserved for those working for the government.  Hopefully.  “I’ll figure it out,” he said.  He motioned to the door.  “I’ll go out the back.”

“Be careful,” she said, as he opened the door.  He looked back at her and winked.

“When am I not?” he asked.  He strutted over to his motorcycle.  The plate would give him away, but he could hopefully drive far enough during the night to ditch it somewhere and walk to a transport station.

He got on, and pressed the ignition.  The motorcycle started to rumble, and he kicked it into gear.  He pointed it out of the parking lot and onto a side road mostly devoid of street lamps and security cameras.

Fuck, and he thought the desert had been life or death.  Well, whatever the feds thought of his involvement with Spock was clearly a moot point now.  If they were willing to blow up his house (presumably with Jim inside it) just on the off chance that Spock had said something to him, or done something weird in front of him, then Jim’s legal options had clearly dwindled.

So that just left the illegal ones.  Great.


	6. Soar with the Wind I

**Soar with the Wind I**  
  
Spock’s mission was not going to plan.  There were multiple reasons for this failure, but the most prominent of these was his current incarceration.  
  
“I’ll ask you one more time.”  The disembodied voice surrounded him on all sides of the small, grey walled room.  Spock could not be certain, but there was a 96.2% probability that at least one of the walls was not a wall at all, but rather a sort of viewing screen that allowed his interrogators to watch his every move.  
  
“What is your species?  Why have you invaded Earth?”  
  
Spock had not given them much to watch.  In truth, he had spent the majority of his time in the cell seated on the floor in intense meditation.  He had sunk so deeply into his inner self that he had not even reacted to the outward, physical stimuli his captors had subjected him to.  
  
Spock did not reply to the query from the disembodied voice.  When the shock came, his body convulsed, yet he did not cry out in pain.  Another shock came, and Spock observed it as if detached from his own body.  Pain was in the mind, and he could control the mind.  
  
He had to give the humans credit for creativity when it came to torture.  He also had to give them credit for locating the transponder in his arm, which had been removed more than a week ago when he was first taken into custody.  
  
“Alien,” said the voice.  “Why have you invaded our planet?  What are your plans?”  
  
Spock breathed deeply and did not speak, surrendering instead to the welcoming darkness of his own mind.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’ve nearly killed him,” came a faint, irate voice from somewhere above him.  “If you kill him, I won’t have anything to fix.  Hell, I don’t even know if I can fix him now!”

“He’s fine.”  A more dismissive voice, this time.  “Just stubborn.”

There was the sound of bustling, and a bright light appeared, visible through Spock’s eyelids.  Then the first human growled.

“I can’t treat him with you hovering all over my equipment.”

“You are not in any position to bargain, Doctor.”  A warning tone this time.

“For god’s sake!” Spock heard the sound of stomping feet drawing nearer to his prone form, and an elastic snap of something.  “This right here is strictly medical business.  I know you have cameras and microphones everywhere, so just go back into your office and let me do my work in peace!”  There was the sound of water running somewhere off to Spock’s right, and the screech of rusty metal.  “Unless you want him to die on the operating table, that is.”

A tense silence.  Then, “Fine, Doctor.  But I expect him to be in prime shape by tomorrow.”

“Yeah right,” said the doctor.  “He’ll need at least three days if you ever want to get anything out of him.”

Spock heard a displeased huff and the sound of quick footsteps before a door opened and banged shut.

Spock debated the merits of keeping up the pretense of sleep.

“I know you’re awake,” said the gruff voice from before.

Spock opened his eyes cautiously, and studied the form in front of him.  The human wore a blue mask over his mouth, and a white jacket.  His eyes were dark, and his eyebrows a bit pronounced.  His hair was darker than Jim Kirk’s had been, but lighter than Spock’s.  It was cut fairly short, but Spock could see that it had a bit of a wave in it.

“I’m Dr. Leonard McCoy,” the man said, and Spock noticed a peculiar accent to his speech.  “I’m going to assume you can understand me, since you brought some kid back alive after a week in his company.”

Spock blinked at him.

“Fine,” Dr. McCoy said, turning away.  “You don’t have to answer.  You probably heard me say we’re being watched, anyway.”  He pointed ever so slightly at a rounded cylinder placed in the junction between the ceiling and the wall.  Spock followed the contours of the seam with his eyes, and noticed three more such objects.

“Video cameras,” said McCoy.  He waved at one, and bared his teeth in a facsimile of a grin.  Spock observed his actions with a growing amount of fascination, then chastised himself.  He did not need to study the apparent dislike McCoy had for his employers.  What he needed to do was focus on escaping his prison, and contacting the Vulcan ship to report his failures to the High Command.

A thought occurred to him, and he took stock of his body.  He tried to wriggle, and noticed for the first time that his arms and legs were strapped down with some very strong material.  He doubted even he’d be able to break it easily, despite his relatively superior strength.  There was a barely healing laceration in his arm, from where the transponder had been removed.  Numerous cuts marred his face, one dangerously close to endangering his eyesight.  His kneecaps felt delicate, bruised.   His throat was raw, and he cast his mind back and recalled being dunked repeatedly into a vat of water, swallowing some, and often choking on it.

Spock exhaled.  Fortunately, the humans seemed to know little of Vulcan physiology.  His hands had not been paid any undue attention, and his mind had not been touched by any external force.  He hypothesized that, due to his higher lung capacity, and youth spent on a planet with a much lower oxygen level than Sol III, even the water torture had been much less effective than the humans had intended.

The human, McCoy, was speaking again.  “You’re probably not going to die,” he said, as he applied some sort of cream to Spock’s face.  As the human brushed over his meld points with gloved hands, Spock could not help an involuntary flinch.

McCoy raised an eyebrow at him.  “Those spots shouldn’t be tender,” he muttered, and then seemed to recall something.  “Of course, you’re not human,” he said to Spock.  “So I don’t really know a damn thing about your physiology.”  He peeled off his gloves and tossed them into the waste receptacle.  “You’ll probably mend,” he said, his back to Spock as he washed his hands.  “Though I honestly couldn’t tell you if that’s a blessing or a curse.”

Spock was inclined to agree with him.

“They’re too scared to damage you too badly, if you’re wondering.” McCoy added.  “Mostly because they don’t know if something like breaking your legs will kill you immediately, or give you super strength.”

Such postulations were ridiculous, Spock thought.  Any idiot could see his physiology did not differ _that_ much from a human’s.  But still, he held his tongue.  Such assertions would probably just worsen the entire situation.

“Anyhow, that’s the best I can do for you,” McCoy turned back around as the doors to the room opened.  Two burly humans appeared and moved behind his bed to wheel him back, Spock presumed, to his cell.  “I expect we’ll see each other again soon.”

McCoy’s predication proved fairly accurate.  Another two days passed before Spock once again found himself in the medical room.  The humans had apparently gotten over their fear of damaging him too badly, if the burns on his legs and his fractured humerus were anything to go by.

“So I got to tell you,” McCoy said as he set the bone and splinted it, “if your people were planning on invading Earth?  Not doing such a good job.”  He cocked his head, a brown forelock of hair falling into his eyes.  He brushed it away with his arm.  “On the other hand,” he continued, “If you were trying to find out if us earthlings are a bunch of sadistic assholes who could do with an invasion, well.  You’re pretty right on the money on that part.”

Spock glared at him a little, then closed his eyes in resignation as McCoy dabbed a cream onto his burns.  His eyes shot open in alarm as the doctor adjusted his broken limb and jabbed Spock with some sort of needle.

Barbarians, thought Spock.  Had they never heard of a bone regenerator or a hypospray?

He flexed his fingers on his good hand, and tested the strength of his bonds.  They were strong, but not Romulan grade restraints.  He might be able to break them, if the opportunity arose.

Back in his cell a short while later, Spock strained to regain his meditative trance, but for the first time in several days, he could not focus.  He wondered if the analgesic that McCoy had injected him with had other properties, or unexpected consequences for a Vulcan.

His mind instead drifted back to Jim, the human whose life he had saved.  He rebuked himself.  Why had he done such a thing?  If he had not, then he might already be in San Francisco, gathering the data he needed.  If he had not . . .

Then Jim Kirk would probably be dead.  Spock allowed his lips to twitch downwards in the faintest of frowns.  The human should mean nothing to him.  His death would not have been Spock’s fault.

Had it been Jim who had turned him in?  No, Spock thought.  He rose to his feet and began to pace, his splinted arm held tightly to his side.  No, that was not possible.  Jim had remained oblivious to Spock’s alien nature.  What’s more, he had been unconscious when Spock had brought him into the hospital.  It must have been the staff there, he hypothesized, who had raised the alarm.  Something must have shown in his face, or perhaps he had been bleeding somewhere?  The memory was difficult to fully recall.  A suspicious look.  Someone behind him.  A man in dark clothing, and a sharp pain to the neck.  Then – nothing.

He wondered if Jim knew what had become of him.  Likely not.  And given the sort of society he lived in, he figured if Jim indeed requested answers, he would not receive them.

A pity, Spock thought.  Jim had seemed an affable enough human.  He did not delude himself into thinking that Jim’s affability extended as far as to include people whose very humanity was in question.  It was fortunate that Spock’s Vulcan characteristics had remained hidden.  Spock pressed his hand to his temples and rubbed them.  McCoy’s drug must be affecting him more than he had assumed.  He had this strange sensation that he did not wish Jim to think badly of him.  How very peculiar.

The next time Spock encountered McCoy, it was to see the man looming over him, two pieces of rectangular equipment attached to cords in the wall, clasped in his hands.

“Your heart’s in a weird fucking place,” the human informed him, after determining that Spock was still capable of breathing on his own.  His side hurt and so, for some reason, did his chest.

Spock twitched his hand at him, feeling weak all over.  He was not lying in the usual medical room, but instead on his back on a cold stone floor.  He was soaking wet, and shivering.

“Oh,” McCoy said.  “And you almost just drowned.  Welcome back.”  He rolled Spock over onto his good side.  Spock was blearily surprised to feel a faint sense of concern through the touch of the doctor’s ungloved hands.  And an anger.  With him?  No . . . Spock forced himself to concentrate, to push past the throbbing in his head.  No, not angry with him, angry _for_ him.

How peculiar, that the human doctor would feel thus.

Also, in the interest of being truthful, Spock was not certain he was entirely pleased to be ‘back.’  He coughed, and some more liquid expelled from his lungs onto the floor.  Spock groaned.

McCoy started to stand, placing his hands on the floor to lever himself up.  And suddenly Spock, through the haze of near death and pain and torment, sensed a chance.  He wriggled backward the slightest bit, just enough so that his hand, still tied behind his back, came into contact with McCoy’s.

To perform a formal meld, Spock needed to have access to the other person’s meldpoints.  To transfer emotion however, a simple touch would suffice.

McCoy audibly gasped as Spock’s miserable sense of self came roaring into his mind.  He dropped to his knees, then stared at Spock, eyes wide, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Someone else’s boots stepped into Spock’s field of view.  “What is it, Doctor?” A woman’s voice questioned briskly.  “Did he do anything?”

McCoy shook himself.  “N— no,” he said, breaking his gaze away from Spock’s.  “Nothing.  I just remembered something, that’s all.  I need to do a test on him.”

The boots came closer.  “Really?  What kind of test?”

“I need to test his blood for pathogens,” McCoy snapped, rising and crossing his arms.  “I’ve just realized that an alien life form could start a whole new plague here.  I’ve got to make sure we’re going to have a redo of guns, germs and steel.”

The boots paused in their movement.  “Very well,” their owner said eventually.  “We’re done with him today anyway.  Inform us of the results of your tests.”

“Of course,” said McCoy.  “Anything else?”

“No,” the woman replied.  Spock watched her boots disappear out the door.  He closed his eyes.

Spock was lifted up and deposited onto a wheeling gurney.  His unbroken arm, and his legs were again strapped down, and another human in a white coat wheeled him after McCoy’s disappearing shadow.  He was taken down a long hallway and back into the medical room.

When he arrived, McCoy was waiting for him.

“I need to test your blood,” he said, without preamble.  He took out what must have been a hollow needle, and, after a minute or two of prodding and tapping at Spock’s arm in search of a suitable vein, wiped his arm with something, stuck the needle into him and began draw blood.  Spock watched as it filled a small tube with green fluid.

“Another,” said McCoy, finishing for a second tube and needle.  He swabbed at Spock’s arm again, found the vein, and filled up the second clear tube.  He placed the two items in a rack on the far side of the room, then stripped off his gloves and ran his hands under soap and water.  He stepped over to Spock, who watched him somewhat warily.  “I’m going to touch you,” he said softly, mouth barely moving.  “Please don’t melt my brain.”

He placed his bare hands on Spock’s forehead.  Spock took a deep breath at the sudden onslaught of McCoy’s emotions.  He sensed . . . a tentative fear, a small twinge of relief and also anger.  A great anger and hatred, seething behind his barely polite veneer.  And behind the anger, an encompassing grief.  Spock’s eyes watered at the unexpected intensity of the emotions.  He slammed up his shields and opened his mouth on reflex to protest the contact, before his logic suddenly kicked into gear.

McCoy had sensed Spock’s previous attempt at mental contact.  He was . . . attempting to speak to Spock?  Spock cautiously lowered his shields.  McCoy was still there.

He sent his sense of being back to McCoy.  The human jumped, but did not let his hand slip off Spock’s skin.

“You’re . . .” McCoy whispered, jaw slack.

Spock sent him a sense of warning.  His eyes flickered to the cameras set around the room.

McCoy shook his head.  “Right,” he muttered.  He leaned over Spock, as if to check something.  His voice brushed against Spock’s ear.  “Can you talk at all?  Twitch your right foot for yes and left for no.”

Spock moved the big toe on his right foot.

“Well I’ll be,” McCoy said, moving back from him and examining him with new interest.  He looked very thoughtful.  Spock hoped he had not miscalculated in attempting to contact this human through telepathy.  He looked toward the door as it creaked open, moving quickly to intercept whoever was attempting to enter.

“I didn’t say you could come in here!” he barked.  “I’m still testing!”

“Didn’t look like it,” came the voice of the same woman as before.  “What were you really doing, McCoy?”

“Nothing,” said McCoy.

The woman moved past him into the room.  She looked at Spock, her gray eyes trailing over his form with disinterested.  She wore her blonde hair cropped close to her head, and form fitting dark garments.  She stepped next to Spock’s bed.  Spock began to calculate how much force might be necessary to escape his restraints, if it were even possible.

“Hmm,” the woman said.  Then without warning, she placed her hand on Spock’s forehead the same way McCoy had done earlier.

Spock reeled as the force of her mind banged up against his own.  He slammed his mental defenses shut as strongly as he could.  Outside them, he could sense her consciousness attempting to see if it might access his.  Her psi rating must have been higher than McCoy’s.  He knew it happened sometimes, with humans.  He felt a cold anger and mild frustration emanating from her, but the emotions seemed muted somehow, shallow.  Behind those faint emotions there was nothing.  Her mind seemed somewhat . . . empty.

She pulled back, and looked down at Spock, a faint crease between her eyebrows.

“I told you,” McCoy repeated.  “Nothing.  I was just trying to get a baseline temperature for him.”

The woman stepped away from Spock’s bed, gave McCoy an assessing look, and strode away through the still open door.

McCoy stood very still for a moment, then busied himself with something at the counter, which Spock could not see.  After a minute or two, he moved back to Spock’s side.

“You’re done for the moment,” he said.  “Just one thing, I’ve got to take your pulse.”

Spock wondered if McCoy was saying such banal things for the benefit of the watchers behind the camera, or for what he perceived to be Spock’s emotional well-being.

Spock then watched with a mild sense of bemusement while McCoy attempted to find a good location to take Spock’s pulse.

“God you’re not human,” he said after settling on a point on his neck (which Spock had assumed was rather obvious).  He made a face at the speed of Spock’s pulse.  “Unless your species is just supposed to be in cardiac arrest all the time.”  He dropped his hand, but not before Spock received at tentative push at his shields.  He let them down the smallest amount, and was inundated with McCoy’s . . . was that satisfaction?  Or reassurance?

McCoy blinked one eye at him.

Spock had . . . no idea what that was supposed to signify.

McCoy sighed and clapped him on the shoulder as Spock’s guards entered the room and prepared to take him away.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jim Kirk’s programming proficiency level was so good it was illegal.

Literally.

Government policy dictated that anyone with the means and ability to hack into their system would automatically be put to work for them directly.  Apparently such laws were implemented in order to cut down on the number of rogue computer specialists running around.

Jim supposed it would have made sense, had the policy actually been effective in any way.  Unfortunately for the policy makers in this case, any attempt to legislate cyberspace had so far met with dismal failure.  The more they tried, the more difficult it became.  A determined individual did not have much difficulty learning advanced programming away from the all encompassing embrace of government ‘net officials.

Jim was nothing if not determined.

Earth was globally connected by the ‘net.  Simply put, it was a more modern form of the now obsolete _internet,_ which he had been using since early childhood to finish up school reports, and to access movie and transport times.

In truth however, there were two “nets.”  The first was the squeaky clean one filled with state approved media, educational websites, and amusing videos of cats.  If you paid premium, you could probably access porn.  The second ‘net filled in all the cracks and holes left by the first.  Criminals, dissenters, and those with unhealthy levels of curiosity, could access un-doctored media footage, private health information, illegal political forums, and much more adventurous porn.

Jim knew which ‘net he could find what he wanted, and it wasn’t the one with the cats.

Jim hadn’t learned his skills with a computer because he wanted to get into the Gold Dirt trade, or blow up the capitol in the name of peace and equality.  Jim had been there.  He knew what happened to dissenters, and he knew what it was like to starve in human chaos.  But that was in the past, and since then he and his brother had strived to prove their worth as citizens.  Even been willing to sacrifice themselves, just like the famous George Kirk, war hero.

Jim glared down at his data pad and typed in another line of code, then another.

Except apparently being a model citizen wasn’t enough.  They could still take him away, no matter if he was innocent.  Since his escape from Riverside, Jim had begun to feel an old fury building again in his bones.  They had lied.  They had told him, promised the kid he had been, and they had lied.

Jim hadn’t learned his skills with a computer because he wanted to blow up the capitol in the name of peace and equality.

Except now?  He really, really did.

Well, maybe more in the name of justice and being really, really pissed off, but if the end result was the same, he didn’t suppose it really mattered.

Jim wasn’t about to go and try to contact the Resistance just yet.  He knew they were out there, but from what he could tell (and he could usually tell a lot) they weren’t too organized; just a rag-tag group of disenchanted people who’d had the luck to pick a catchy name.  Jim figured that he was capable of causing enough damage on his own, without going to the trouble of trying to tap them.  The rumor was you had to know someone who vouched for you to get in at all.  Jim supposed that this kind of contributed to their reputation for being flimsy and non-existent.

But back to being a thorn in the Bureau’s side (Jim Kirk was a man of priorities).   It was kind of ironic, but Jim thought it perfectly fitting that at the same time they were trying to pinch him, the Bureau had given him the key to really pissing them off.

The key of course, was Spock Grayson.

Jim set his plan into motion in a modest coffee shop in San Francisco.  Being the capitol of the North American Collective, San Francisco was of course likely the most dangerous place for Jim to be.  Therefore, Jim figured that it was probably the last place the Bureau would look for him, if they even suspected that he was still alive.

So, now to find his mystery man.  Jim took a sip of his latte and turned on his data pad.  He opened a particular program, and typed in some code.  He took another sip of latte, licking cream off the top of his lip, and opened up the ‘net.

“Jason Myers,” he muttered to himself.  He blinked as several hundred names began to roll down the screen.  “Damn, I wish you didn’t have such a common name. Hmm.  Let’s try something else.”  He opened another window and typed in the web address of the hospital in Salt Lake City.  With the air of a casual thief, he set his coffee cup down and began figuring out how to access the hospital’s recent visitor records.

Jim’s efforts were rewarded five minutes later.  “Jason T. Myers, is it?” he said.  “And what do you know, here’s your ID number.”  Jim gulped the rest of his, now much cooler, drink, and turned his attention to the apple fritter on his plate.  He took a bite.  “I hope for your sake that the T stands for something better than _Tiberius_ ,” he said through a mouthful of donut.

Jim went back to his first window, and added the initial and the government issued ID number to his search.  All the other names disappeared, leaving Jim with one.

“Fantastic.”  He grinned, setting the other half of the fritter back down on the plate.  He clicked on the link.  “Oh my,” he said.  “No wonder you were so stiff, Jason.  You just had back surgery.”  He peered at the rest of Myer’s medical history.  “Aside from that though, you seem to be in pretty good health – oh, except for yesterday’s cavity.  Too bad.”

Humming, Jim scrolled down some more, and smiled.

Armed with Jason Myers personal identification, Jim’s next step involved something a little more intricate.

This time, he holed up in one of the periodical rooms of the library.  “I would like to speak to a representative,” Jim said through his communicator.

“Hello,” said a female voice after twenty minutes of elevator music.  “This is Helen at the Bay Area Bank.  How may I help you?”

“Hello,” Jim said, lowering his voice slightly.  “My name is Jason Myers and the pass code for my account appears to be invalid.”

“Would you like to change your pass code?” came the reply.

“No, no,” Jim said hastily.  “If you could just send it to me, that’d be fine.”

“I’m sorry,” came the voice, “We don’t have the authorization to do that without permission.”

“You couldn’t just tell me?” Jim wheedled

“I would need to verify your identity, sir,” said Helen of the Bay Area Bank.

“Well, my birthday,” began Jim.

“You would need to come into the branch personally,” said Helen.  “We take identity theft very seriously.”

Jim smiled.  “Oh, okay,” he said.  “I’ll just get down there as soon as I can.  Goodbye.”

“Good day, Mr. Myers,” said Helen.

After Jim hung up on the bank, he hunkered down between the stacks and turned on his data pad again, quickly typing in another website, and then shouldering his way into the restricted parts of their database.  “Wow,” he said, tongue between his teeth.  “You guys do take ID theft seriously.  You’ve already put a flag out to send a message to Mr. Myers.”  He considered his options, then copied the warning in the email the bank intended to send, deleted their email, and attached a few clever lines of code and pasted the bank’s words to a message of his own devising.  He put on the final touches with a merry wave, and removed the system’s flag on Myers’ name.  The bank would probably send the message in an hour or two.

Now, all he had to do was wait for Myers to open the email.

Jim spent the evening in a diner, alternating between requesting more slices of bacon, and glaring at his data pad.  Seriously, Myers must be some sort of throwback to the ancient days of yore because he hadn’t checked his email in over four hours.  It was ridiculous.

“This is ridiculous,” he grumbled, gnawing on his last piece of bacon.

A waitress sashayed by.  “Can I get you something else?” she asked, hand on her hip.  Jim wondered if her red curls were just as soft as they looked.  He gave himself a mental slap.  He had a job to do.

“Um,” Jim said, looking at his plate.

The waitress looked too.  “Bacon?” she said, tone drier this time.

Jim pursed his lips.  “Nah,” he said, sending her one of his trademark devil-may-care grins.  “Pancakes this time.  A stack of blueberry.”

“You got it,” she said, lifting his dirty plate out of the way.

“Thanks.”  Jim waited until she had gone (watched her leave), before turning on his data pad again.  A little red box in the corner blinked at him.  “Finally!” he said, half exasperated, half absurdly pleased with his own cleverness.

The next time Jason Myers opened his computer, Jim would already be there too, recording every keystroke.

He glanced up as the waitress returned with the pancakes, suddenly even hungrier than he had been before.

Myers did not access any restricted Bureau websites the next day, because the next day was Sunday and he was, Jim imagined, probably off playing golf somewhere.  Jim, who was back in the less visited rooms of the library to avoid accidentally outing himself as either a dead man or a fugitive, was rather envious.  Patience and espionage were definitely overrated, if hiding in a stuffy library on a rare, actually sunny day in San Francisco in August, was what he got for it.

He kind of hoped for Myers to trip over his golf club, fall into a sand trap and break his neck, but then recalled that if he did, there’s be no telling how else Jim would be able to get into the Bureau’s database and find Spock.  So he tempered his irritation, and simply hoped for Myers to fall into a sand trap and twist his ankle a bit instead.  Because Jim was, if nothing else, a generous fellow.

Jim had to wait until precisely nine thirty-six on Monday morning before Myers (albeit unwittingly) handed him the key to the Bureau’s database.  Jim immediately set to searching for Spock Grayson’s whereabouts.

Unfortunately, according to the database, Spock Grayson did not appear to exist.

Jim threw his hands in the air.  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he demanded from his bed in the crappy motel next to the freeway.  “This again?”  He redid the search, but still nothing appeared.  He thought for a moment, then typed in the date he had been admitted to the hospital in Salt Lake City.  Nothing.  Jim typed in a day earlier.  Still nothing.  Jim growled, typed in the date two days before his admittance to the military hospital, and held his breath.

One label popped up.  Jim squinted at it.  “ET_X553697,” he read.  “Huh.  Okay.”  He shrugged.  Maybe there was a picture?  Jim tapped on the name and an encoded file opened. “Damn,” he whistled, looking it over.  Then he shrugged, and set to work.

It was Spock.

Jim stared at the picture.  The lighting was terrible, and the guy in the picture was asleep, or drugged or something, but Jim knew that nose, and he definitely knew that blank face.  He winced again at the lighting.  Man, couldn’t a big budget organization do better?  They had made Spock’s skin and bruises look green, for fuck’s sake.  “ET_X553697,” Jim said to himself.  He swung his legs to the side of the bed, and stared at the picture some more.  “I hope your real name isn’t Ernest or something,” Jim told Spock’s photo.  “Otherwise, we’re definitely going to be having words.”


	7. Soar with the Wind II

**Soar with the Wind II**  
  
Jim’s search had hit a dead end.  Spock’s – sorry, ET_X553697’s – prison profile listed many things, including his height, weight, eye color, and date of incarceration.  What it did not list however, was his location.  Or at least, any location that Jim could use.  Spock was apparently being held at Facility 66AZ, but that didn’t tell Jim anything.  Was it near Highway 66 in Arizona or something?  Probably not.  
  
Jim looked at the clock, noticing that it was almost time for him to check out of the hotel.  He scanned Spock’s profile again in frustration.  66AZ?  What did that even mean?  Was he supposed to be able to find it on a map or something?  
  
Ugh, this was fucking useless.  He read the whole profile again word by word, hoping to find something he’d missed.  Preferably something obvious, like a map or directions from southbound on I-5, but subtle was acceptable.  
  
He really didn’t want to try and hack into the upper levels of the Bureau’s database just for a stupid map.  What he was doing was risky enough as it was.  As soon as someone noticed two people using Myers’ info, he’d be locked out.  
  
Jim cocked his head, a line of text catching his eye.  
  
 **Supervising Inquisitor: GBI ID#3329600 – A.  Samuel**  
  
 **Supervising Medic: GBI ID#6790200 – L. H. McCoy, MD**  
  
Hmm, interesting.  He traced the name L. H. McCoy.  He wasn’t about to go toe-to-toe with a supervising inquisitor from the Bureau – that was a recipe for getting his ass stuck in a cell next to Spock’s – but a doctor?  He or she couldn’t be too hard to find, and they probably wouldn’t be expecting anything either.  
  
He typed in a new search on the ‘net for a Dr. L. H. McCoy, and was gratified that at least one person by that name actually existed.  Jim clicked on the information, and his eyebrows rose.  Apparently Dr. McCoy was from the Georgia region, and he had had a private practice in Savannah until just last year.  Jim read further.  According to a gossipy little local news channel in Savannah, Dr. McCoy had left his practice following a divorce from his wife.  The official cause for divorce was listed as _irreconcilable differences_ but the gossipy news channel had also gone on extensively about what simply a _tragedy_ it was for the McCoys, for their marriage to disintegrate so soon after the disappearance of their only child.  Apparently the fact that the most famous surgeon in Savannah would be leaving, justified this rather blasé invasion of privacy.  
  
And . . . the article did not mention where McCoy had gone.  Nor did further searches turn up McCoy as registered at any hospitals or clinics.  Fuck.  Jim resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall.  
  
After a moment or two of squeezing and un-squeezing his hands around a pillow, which he was imagining to be Jason Myer’s neck, and also the article writer’s, he sobered.  
  
God, what he was doing was really crazy.  Was he really going to try and break out a high security prisoner just because . . . just because?  He didn’t know what he was getting into.  Spock could be a psychotic mass murderer for all he knew.  This was stupid.  He didn’t need a doctor, he needed a lawyer.  No, what he needed was a whole army of lawyers, who could take his cause to the top.  
  
Yeah, a whole army of state approved lawyers.  Great idea, Jim.  He buried his head in his arms.  Then he froze.  
  
Lawyers.  The article had said that McCoy’s ex-wife was a lawyer.  She still lived in Savannah.  Fuck.  
  
Jim typed a query into his data pad, memorized the number that popped up, and reached for his communicator.  
  
Someone answered on the third ring.  
  
“Hello?”  The voice was young, male, and disinterested.  “Harper’s law firm, how may I direct your call?”  
  
“Hello?” Jim said.  “Hi, yeah.  I would like to speak to a Ms. Jocelyn McCoy?  If it’s not too much trouble?”  
  
“We don’t have anyone here by that name,” the receptionist informed him.  “Sorry.”  
  
“No, wait!” said Jim.  “Uh, she used to be married to a doctor—”  
  
“May I ask what this is in regards to?” the receptionist demanded.  
  
“My um, my name’s Sam,” Jim said.  “I went to medical school with her ex-husband and I—”  
  
“Just one moment please,” the receptionist said.  Jim could practically hear the eye rolling on the other line.  “I’ll see if Jocelyn is available.  She might be on another call.”  
  
“Of course,” said Jim.  Then he was put on hold.  
  
He counted one minute of elevator music.  Then two.  Then three.  Finally—  
  
“This is Jocelyn.”  
  
“Hi,” Jim said, “am I speaking to Jocelyn McCoy?”  
  
There was a pause, “I go by Hatfield now,” the woman’s voice said eventually.  “What can I help you with?”  
  
“Yes, my apologies, Ms. Hatfield,” said Jim.  “My name is Sam, and I’m a former colleague of your ex-husband’s.  I’ve been trying to look him up—”  
  
Jocelyn’s voice got noticeably colder.  “I don’t know where Leonard is,” she said shortly.  “All I know is that he moved out west somewhere.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Jim said, “You wouldn’t happen to know where, would you?  I wouldn’t be calling you like this if it wasn’t a—”  
  
“I told you, no,” she interrupted.  “If that’s all?”  
  
“I—” said Jim.  
  
“Thank you for your call,” said Jocelyn Hatfield, and hung up.  
  
Jim stared at the communicator for a few seconds.  “Well, fuck you too,” he grumbled to it.  Man, he was never going to find this dude.  Maybe he’d have better luck searching for A. Samuels.  
  
No, wait.  That was stupid.  There had to be some way to find this guy.  Jim bit his lip.  Dr. Leonard McCoy . . . well.  If he was a doctor, then he had to be registered with the province he was in, right?  Otherwise he wouldn’t have a license to practice.  
  
A buzzer sounded in his room.  A communication from downstairs.  He pressed accept, and the hotel receptionist’s haggard face appeared.  
  
“Sir, do you wish to reserve another night?”  
  
“Um,” said Jim.  He tapped his finger next to his thigh.  Was it better to keep moving?  
  
“Your checkout was at eleven AM, sir,” said the receptionist.  “It is now eleven thirty.  If you’re not going to reserve another night, there is a late fee for overstaying.”  
  
“Yeah,” sighed Jim.  “Okay, I’ll take another night.”  
  
“Pleasure doing business with you sir.”  
  
The communication screen turned off.  Jim stuck his tongue out at it, then put his chin in his hands and stared at the wall.  
  
Okay, a list.  He needed a to-do list.  First thing, he had to figure out where McCoy worked.  Then, he had to figure out where he lived.  After that he had to . . . what, kidnap the good doctor and demand to be taken to Spock?  
  
Jim shook his head in disgust.  That was a horrible idea if he’d ever had one.  He exhaled, and leaned back against the thin mattress and flat pillows.  No, he thought, he was going about this backwards.  If he could find out where McCoy lived, then he could see where he worked.  After that, Jim could do some good old-fashioned observation (the irony that he was using his military training for something decidedly the opposite of what he was supposed to be using it for, did not escape him), figure out how to get in without turning himself into a target, and rescue Spock.  Piece of cake.  
  
Jim heaved a pillow over his eyes.  He was definitely going to die.  
  
Well, the good doctor wasn’t going to find himself.  Jim sat up, adjusted his data pad on his lap, and set to work.  
  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So, can I call you Spock?”  McCoy asked.  He rummaged through a drawer, and pulled out a long, thin piece of material.

Spock eyed it.

“It’s a measuring tape,” McCoy said.  “They’ve given me permission to,” he grimaced, his back towards the cameras, “study you.  I’m sure it won’t be humiliating at all.”

Spock sensed that McCoy was employing human sarcasm in this statement.  It was most peculiar, he thought, to say one thing and to mean something else entirely.  Not quite the same as a lie, whose purpose was to mask a truth, but similar enough in that—

“No, seriously,” said McCoy.  “I can’t just go around calling you ‘test subject x’ or something.  That’s just,” his mouth quirked, “that’s just inhuman.”

Spock suspected he had missed some sort of humorous moment, but he was not too concerned.

“Well, the kid whose life you saved, he said your name was ‘Spock Grayson,’” McCoy announced, measuring the width of his ankles, and marking something on his data pad.

Jim.

“So that’s what I’ll call you, until you say different.”

Had Jim turned him in?  Was his incarceration Jim’s fault?  No, Spock thought.  He had thought this through before.  Jim had likely been questioned by the authorities.  Not suspecting anything odd— Spock sighed internally, and amended his statement – not suspecting anything _too_ odd in regards to Spock, he probably had given the authorities any information they wished.

And why should he not? Spock questioned.  Jim was not beholden to Spock, not at all.

 _Oh yes he is_ , came the menacing thought from that deep, rather more Vulcan part of himself.  _He owes you a life debt._

Spock shuddered, pushing down the invading thoughts.  Life debts were an antiquity of ancient Vulcan, before Surak.  Jim Kirk did not owe Spock anything.

Spock raised his head at the feeling of something cold slithering up his leg.

“Don’t mind me,” said McCoy, brandishing the measuring tape.  “I’m just cataloguing everything about your body.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, then lay his head back down again.  The restraints were as strong as ever.  How had mere humans managed to conceive of restraints strong enough to hold a Vulcan?  Why had they even known there was a need?  He supposed his denser bone and muscle structure might hint at a higher mean strength for his species, but they would have had to study him in depth to ascertain that information.  And so far, the study that McCoy was currently undergoing was the first such one.

Most intriguing.

Upon Spock’s removal back to his cell, he noted how the captors who handled him directly all wore a strange protective gear that covered their upper backs to their chins.  Spock’s eyes narrowed.  Any Vulcan who found himself in a dangerous situation would first attempt to neutralize his opponents in the very area that Spock’s guards had their strongest protection.

But who could have told the humans about a Vulcan neck pinch?  It was impossible.

No, Spock thought as his jailors shoved him into his cell and slammed the door shut.  The restraints loosened on their own.  Spock flexed his wrists and rose from his rolling prison to pace around his cell.  Not impossible, improbable.

There was no food that day.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jim was both perturbed and alarmed to discover, after an hour of work, that Dr. Leonard McCoy’s residence was currently listed as San Francisco.  In fact, Jim saw as he gave the address a closer look and switched to satellite imaging, McCoy lived in a small apartment above a . . . was that a nightclub?  In the Castro district?

  
Well, that was kind of unexpected.  Jim perused the address again, noting the name of the club as Vega 7.  Jim turned off his data pad and stood, stretching his legs.  If he was going to go and stalk a prominent member of the medical community who lived above a club in one of San Francisco’s most notorious neighborhoods, he might as well be dressed for it.

He spent the rest of the day finding cheap yet suitable clothing for a night out on the town.  He ditched his worn, dirty jeans and old T-shirt for a nicer, green shirt and tighter jeans.  The leather jacket however, remained the same.

Jim considered the entrance to the club from a narrow ally about twenty feet away.  It was risky, he thought, to go into such a populated place.  His face hadn’t been plastered all over the newsfeed, but that didn’t mean no one was looking for him.  He should’ve cut his hair or grown a mustache or something.  This was stupid.

“Hey, you.”

Jim turned.

“Yeah, you.”  A police officer.  He approached Jim, feet wide in a casual stance.

“Yes, Officer?” Jim said.

“What are you doing back here?  You know the law against loitering.”

Jim in fact did not know the law.  It must be a local one.

“Oh,” he said.  “Sorry, sir.  I was just waiting for my friend.  I can go wait in the club though.”

The officer looked at him appraisingly.  Jim attempted to look as inoffensive as possible.

“Let me see your I.D,” the officer said.

Internally, Jim groaned.  He still had Tam’s brother’s ID chip, but for all he knew it had been reported as stolen already.  He’d been paying for everything with cash for the past few days.  “Um,” he said, hoping to stall the cop until he could make a break for it.  “Sorry, Officer, I— um, see the thing is—”

The police officer took another step towards him, reaching for something at his side.  Jim’s blood started to run very cold.  “Speak up, boy,” said the officer.  “I don’t have patience for people who waste my time.”

Jim moved back a little, conscious that if he went too far he’d hit the brick wall behind him.  “I—” he said, not sure where he was going with that sentence.

“Let me see your goddamn identification or so help me I will bust your ass to jail for selling gold dirt,” the cop snarled.  And yes, now he was definitely holding a gun.

Jim eyed it.  Most guns didn’t shoot bullets anymore, but he knew as well as anyone in the military that a laser could be just as damaging.  His own sidearm had been in his house when it had exploded, and he hadn’t regretted its non-presence until now.  Of course, Jim thought, playing the innocence card would have been a lot more difficult when carrying a weapon banned for civilians.

Jim put his hand up, trying to look as cooperative as possible.  God he hated cops.  There were bad eggs and good ones of course, and his military ID used to convince all eggs to leave him alone real quick.  Except now, apparently that wasn’t going to fly.  Especially since he was masquerading as Tam’s younger brother, Milo, who was, oh god, a _painter_.  Jim did not think that particular career would endear him to the police.

“Look, sir,” Jim said, trying to sound more like a reasonable and loyal civilian and less like someone who had spent the past week hacking secure government databases and was now intent on spying on a member of the medical community.  “I’m really sorry.  I just moved here and I wasn’t looking for trouble, I swear.  And I don’t do drugs.”

“Your ID,” said the cop, not impressed at all by Jim’s plea.

“Okay,” Jim said.  “Okay, I’m just going to lower my right hand and reach into my pocket for my—”

“Tim!” came a shriek from the other end of the alleyway.  “Timothy Jones!  You idiot, you forgot your ID!”

Jim and the cop both turned to stare at the newcomer, the cop’s gun lowering and Jim’s jaw dropping in utter what-the-fuck.

A young woman strode toward them, her hands swinging at her sides.  She wore her black hair in a series of braids all gathered at a bun at the back of her head.  Her skin was a deep brown, and her eyes darker still.  She wore a flowing red and orange dress, gathered at the waist and cut off a bit below the knee.  She also carried an ID chip, which she shoved at the stunned officer before turning to Jim and continuing to berate him.

Jim was certain that he had never seen her before in his entire life.

“Honestly, Timmy,” she said, scowling.  Her long red earrings dangled close to her shoulders, and the little bells on them twinkled as she shifted to stand between Jim and the cop.

 _Timmy?_ Jim thought blearily, but didn’t interrupt on account of still being totally baffled.

“I’ve told you like ten times – San Francisco isn’t like Georgia.  You don’t carry your ID, you’re gonna get arrested.”  She crossed her arms and glared down at him.  She made a good showing of it too, considering that her high heels brought her to at least an inch taller than Jim.  He cowered a little.

“Oh, yeah,” he managed.  “Um, sorry.”

She turned toward the cop, expression suddenly sorrowful.  “I am so sorry, Officer,” she gushed.  (Privately, Jim thought she was overdoing it just a tad).  “My friend here,” she gave Jim’s sleeve a yank and Jim stumbled forward, “he’s kind of a space case.”  She smiled at the cop, showing teeth, then lowered her voice, giving the cop a sort of meaningful look.  “And I mean, _really_ a space case, if you know what I mean.”

Jim wondered if he ought to be offended by this.  He settled for crossing his own arms and attempting to yank away from the woman’s hold.  But man, her fingers must be like steel she had a grasp on him so tight.

“And you are?” the cop huffed, attempting to get his tough-as-nails groove back.

She smiled at him again, the sort of sweet smile intended to mask the one thousand and one horrible things that might happen if you ignored it.  “I’m Tabatha Chong,” she said, holding out her own ID chip.

Scowling, the cop took it and examined it closely, running it under a scanner.  He then ran the first chip she had handed him, identifying Jim as Timothy Jones.  He grunted when the scanner blinked green.

Jim held his breath.  The cop might have continued to give Jim trouble even if his borrowed ID had passed, but with someone else here, the difficulty of getting away with it rose a bit.  In addition, Tabatha Chong’s screeching had attracted a small crowd of onlookers, gawping at the entrance of the alley.

“Well,” the cop said finally, giving Jim the stink eye and Tabatha a slightly more respectful nod.  “Everything seems to be in order.”  He grudgingly handed the ID chips back

“As it should be,” Tabatha nodded, but there was a sharper edge to her voice that had not been there before.  She smiled for a third time, but this one was more of a grimace.  “Now if you don’t mind, Officer,” she said, giving Jim a look.  “My friends and I are going to have a sit-down with Tim.  And maybe tattoo his ID chip to his face.”

The cop let out a startled little chuckle, but by the look in his eyes it was clear he wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.  He holstered his gun, and let them pass out of the alleyway.

Tabatha clamped her hand down on Jim’s shoulder and steered him towards the club below McCoy’s apartment.

“Um,” Jim said as they walked out of the cop’s earshot.  “Thanks for doing that, but I really—”

“Not a word out of you,” she said, digging her fingers into his shoulder.  They passed by three bouncers, who gave his rescuer a nod and Jim a look over, before gesturing them inside.

“What, no entrance fee?” Jim said, “Must not be a very good clu— _ow_!” He glared as she shoved him though a throng of fashionably (and not so fashionably) attired young people.

“So, since you rescued me, does that mean you’re going to buy me a drink?” Jim asked as they walked straight past the bar.  They stopped at a staircase with a chain link in front of it and a small sign proclaiming “Employees Only, Rest Rooms At the Other End of The Bar.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Jim said as Tabatha stepped over the link.  Unable to avoid doing the same without causing a major scene (lord, was he ever done with major scenes tonight), he followed.

She turned to him, gaze about ten times less friendly than it had been when talking to the upstanding member of the law enforcement.  “Do the words _no talking_ mean anything to you?” she said, heading down the stairs.

“Well, sure they have meaning,” Jim said.  He inexplicably thought of another person who had rescued his ass in a big way.  Spock had always taken everything Jim had said so literally.  It had kind of been stupid, but funny, in that endearing way only friends and family could be.  Towards the end, Jim had started to wonder if Spock wasn’t doing it on purpose, just to irritate him.

And there he went, thinking about the guy who had ruined his life by saving it.  Wasn’t there therapy or something for this sort of thing?

Tabatha might have rolled her eyes, but in the dim light of the stairwell it was hard to tell.  She pointed at a door at the bottom of the steps.

“In there,” she said.  “Come on.”  She jumped down the last few steps, opened the door, and went inside.  Hesitantly, giving the door a suspicious look and noting that no, there weren’t any emergency exits down here, Jim pressed on the door, swinging it open.  He also stepped inside.

He caught a glimpse of fairly bright light, a number of people sitting on couches or in chairs, and a kitchenette off to the corner, before someone grabbed him from behind and a bag was shoved down over his face.

“What the fuck!” he shouted, the confining fabric of the burlap making it hard to breath.  He kicked back and heard a groan of pain before the arms around him tightened even further.

“Don’t struggle,” growled a voice in his ear as busy hands tied something around his legs and wrists.  Jim ignored it, wriggling frantically, then bashing his head backward into the other guy’s face.  There was an outraged howl and the hands holding him loosened.  Jim took a frantic step, going he had no idea where, before he realizing his legs had been tied together.  Unfortunately, Jim’s realization of this difficulty came a bit too late to prevent his crashing face-first to the floor.

He lay there, dazed, until various hands picked him up and settled him in a chair.

“I dink I broke by dose,” he said, coughing.  The inside of the bag was stifling, and his face hurt like a bitch.  He could feel sticky blood dripping over his lip, into his mouth, and down his chin.  It tasted foul and tangy.

There was a cacophony of voices.  Jim shook his head, trying to clear the ringing from his ears, and felt woozy.  One voice rose over the rest.

“For god’s sake,” it said, coming closer to him.  It was a man’s voice, a bit lower than a tenor, smooth with a faint accent like honey.  People west of the Mississippi didn’t talk like that, Jim knew.  “You didn’t have to bag the man.  Take it off him.”

“We need to make sure he is who we think he is,” came Tabatha’s voice.  “We can’t take any chances.”

“Well you sure took a hell of a chance when you gave him a fake ID in front of a cop!” the first voice snarled back.  The owner of the voice dropped down in front of Jim.  “Hey, kid,” he said.  “What’s your name?”

“Wazzit do you?” Jesus, he was going to choke on his own blood and suffocate in this bag.  “I can’d breathe,” he added.

“It’s kind of important,” said the first voice.

“According to Tabitha ober der it’s Timmy,” said Jim, jerking his chin in the direction he thought Tabatha might be standing.

He heard a snicker.  “Tabatha?” said a new voice.  “You still using that one?”

“It was what I had on me,” not-actually-Tabatha-apparently replied.

“Come on, kid,” said the voice in front of him.  “What’s your name?”

“Done of your business.”

“Yeah, it kind of is.  Your name.”

“You’re like a dog with a bode with dat,” said Jim, now feeling really light headed.  “You gonna arrest be?”

“A . . . bode?”

“Bode!” snapped Jim.  “Arm _bode_ , leg _bode_.  Fuck by dose hurts.”

“I’ll set it for you if you tell me your name,” said the man.

Jim scowled.  Under the cover of the burlap bag, it was less than effective.  “I could jus’ tell you duh wrong one.”

“We need you to say it,” said the man, “so the fancy voice recognition software my friend _borrowed_ for me can confirm if you’re who we think you are.”

“You stole dat from feds?”

“Well, I didn’t, but Tabby over here,” said the man, “might have had something to do with it.”

“I told you not to call me that,” said Tabatha.

Jim considered his options, then his shoulders slumped.  “Fide,” he said.  “By dame’s Jib Kirk.  Happy?”

There was a negative sounding beep and a computerized, “That name and voice are an incorrect match.”

“Huh,” said the man.  “Guess I’ll have to fix your nose first.  Close your eyes.”

“Really?” Jim whined.

“Did I stutter?”

“Okay, Dog-wid-a-bode.”  Jim shut his eyes.

The bag was removed none too gently, and something slipped over his still closed eyes instead.  Jim gasped at the cool, fresh air as it caressed the heated skin of his face.

“Hold still,” said a voice.  Two hands gripped the sides of his face.  “I’m going to count to three.  One . . .”

“Ow!  Motherfucker!” Jim exclaimed as his nose was wrenched back into place.

“Two, three,” finished his tormentor.

“I don’t know you,” Jim said, feeling someone wipe around his nose with a tissue.  He spat blood onto the floor.  Was that a loose tooth?  “But I can sense you’re a sadist, Mr. Dog-With-A-Bone.”

“You’ll live,” said the voice.  “Now, state your name for the nice, government approved software, and if you’re not lying, we’ll take the blindfold off.”

“Fine,” Jim said.  At least he could breathe more normally now, and didn’t sound like a moron.  “My name’s Jim Kirk.”

“That name and voice are an incorrect match.”

“What the fuck?  That’s my name!”

“Your full name,” the man sighed.

“James T. Kirk,” Jim growled.

“That name and voice are an incorrect match.”

“Your entire, full name,” said the man, and Jim swore he could hear a micron of amusement there.

Jim made a face.  “James _Tiberius_ Kirk,” he said.

“Correct match,” said the computerized voice.

“Oh good, you caught the right fish,” said a new voice.  “Well, take his blindfold off him, Doctor.  Dead men can’t go tattling on our little group.”

“Yessir,” said the man who had fixed Jim’s nose.  He lifted the blindfold.

Jim blinked furiously, his eyes watering at the sudden light.  Vision returning to him bit by bit, he attempted to study the form in front of him.  Suddenly his eyes cleared.

“Hey, I know you,” Jim blurted out, “You’re Leonard McCoy.”  He cocked his head, “Isn’t your apartment supposed to be above the club, not under it?”

McCoy took a startled step back, searching Jim’s face.  “You know me?”

“Um,” said Jim.  “It’s not really important.”  He leaned back in his chair as best he could.  “Let’s talk about why I’m here instead,” he suggested.

“Wait a damn minute, how do you know my name?” McCoy said.

“I said, not important.”  Yeah, Jim figured.  Probably better not to mention to the guy in front of you that you had intended to spend the majority of the next twenty-four hours following him around like a deranged and slightly creepy shadow.

“You work for the Bureau,” Jim said.  “What the hell is this?”

“Don’t change the subject,” said McCoy.

“Man, you _are_ like a dog with a bone with this,” Jim said.  “Can I call you that instead?”

“No,” said McCoy, a flash of irritation showing in his eyes.

“Just ‘Bone’ for short?”

“I can inject you with smallpox,” McCoy threatened.

“What?  No you can’t, Bonesy,” said Jim.  “That shit was eradicated three hundred years ago.”

“I’m a Doctor,” McCoy said, hand inching toward what Jim assumed must be his medical bag.  “We’re gifted like that.”

“Wow, you really are kind of a sadist, Bones,” said Jim.

McCoy dropped his hand in disgust, and brought it up to his forehead.  “No wonder the Bureau hates you,” he said.  “You are as irritating as all get out.”

Jim smiled.  McCoy’s gaze hardened.  “But I hope you understand that if you don’t tell me how you got my name, you could be endangering every person in this room.”

Jim’s smile turned into a considerate frown.  He looked around the room.  There appeared to be a crowd of about twenty people, but it was kind of hard for Jim to tell, since some were gathered in corners and other spots, away from his sight.

“This has got to be the worst-concealed drug den I’ve ever seen.”

McCoy looked heavenward.  “We’re not a drug gang.”

Jim cracked a smile.  “Oh, right.  Well if you’re not feds and you’re not smuggling gold dirt, then clearly you’re like, a secret network of spies, or the Resistance or something.”

McCoy’s lips thinned.

Jim’s smile slowly vanished.  He looked around again.  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he said.  “Really?”

Someone in the back started a slow clap.  “Well reasoned, Kirk,” said the voice that had ordered Jim’s blindfold removed.  “Not bad at all.  I always heard you were quick.”

Jim craned his neck as a man appearing to be in his late forties moved out in front of him.

“And who are you?” Jim asked boldly.  If his legs had not been tied together, he would have crossed them.

The man moved closer.  His face was cragged and scarred, but he could have been handsome in his youth.  His jaw was square and his hair a graying brown.

“I’m kind of hurt,” the man said, “you don’t recognize me at all?”

“Nope,” said Jim.  “Sorry.”

The man sighed.  “And here I thought we had a bond ever since I changed your diapers.”  He tilted his head.  “Kids these days.”

“Ookay,” Jim said slowly.  “Kind of creepy, but no.  Still don’t know you.”

“It’s Chris Pike, you idiot!” snapped McCoy in exasperation.  “Seriously, you sure you were in the military?”

Jim’s mouth dropped open.

“Yep,” Pike observed, wheeling his chair the rest of the way in front of him and giving Jim a sort of fatherly, disproving look.  It sat strangely on his scarred face.  “Definitely George’s boy.”  He yawned, stretching out his legs.  “Smart,” he specified, “and yet somehow, still incredibly dumb.”   As the light fell on the rest of Pike’s form, Jim could see that his left leg was actually made of metal up to the knee, and his right was bionic entire.

“Christopher Pike?” Jim repeated, incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Admiral Christopher Pike?”

“The very same.”

“Impossible.”  Jim sat back, looking at first Pike, and then McCoy, accusingly.  “You’re dead.”

“So are you,” Pike replied quietly.

“I don’t remember you,” Jim insisted.

“I’ll bet you don't remember a lot of things since you were a kid.”

Jim glared at him, knew what he was trying to say.  “Don’t say it,” he warned.

Pike shrugged. “If you want,” he said.

“I want you to get me out of this chair and I want you to explain what the fuck I’m doing here.”

Pike’s mouth closed.  He looked . . . fuck all, he looked _disappointed_.  “Sure, Jim,” he said.  He nodded, and the guy standing behind him began to work on the ropes tying his wrists and legs together.  Pike looked at McCoy.  “Take it away,” he said.

McCoy, who had been slouched against the wall arms crossed, straightened.

“I’m in charge of your special friend,” he said, tone abrupt.  “Spock.”

Jim’s mouth went dry.  He felt for a moment as though it were difficult to breathe.  “Yeah, I know,” he said after a moment.  McCoy raised both eyebrows at him.  “I um, kind of hacked into Spock’s file, trying to find where they were keeping him,” explained Jim, a bit shamefaced.

“Da, we know.” A new form shouldered his way up to the front, brown eyes lively and curious.  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kirk,” he said.  “You might not realize, but we have met before.  I am _Rusky_rulz41_ , but my real name is Pavel Andreyevich Chekov.  And you are James Kirk, but also _FinalCruisor1732_ , yes?  Your hacking job was very good.”

“I—” said Jim, taken aback.  “You’re the reason I had cold showers for a week?” he tried.

Pavel Andreyevich Chekov beamed.

“Kid, we’re kind of in the middle of a conversation here,” McCoy said, giving Chekov a very pointed look.

“Oh yes,” Chekov said, not at all apologetic.  “Very sorry, Doctor.” He bowed.

McCoy aimed a swat at his head.  “No you’re not, you little liar,” he said.  “Scat.”

Chekov shrugged, and melted back into the crowd again.

“Was I just accosted by a Russian child?” Jim asked warily.

“Yeah,” McCoy deadpanned.  “He’s here illegally.  Don’t tell any feds.”

“Got it,” said Jim.

“Anyway,” said McCoy.  “We here have decided that it’s probably in everyone’s better interest if we get Spock out of the Bureau’s hands.”

“So, you know who he’s working for?”

McCoy gave him a strange look.  “No,” he said.  “But that’s not really the point, is it?  The point is that whoever he answers to probably isn’t going to be looking too favorably down on us after our government kidnaps and tortures him.  That sort of thing can kind of give a guy a grudge, you know?”

“I guess that makes sense,” Jim said, but his tone was still doubtful.

McCoy barreled on.  “We figured the Bureau would come after you since you spent so much time with him.”

“He saved my life,” Jim interjected.  “We didn’t have long conversations under the stars about the meaning of life or anything.”

(Actually, they kind of had, but Jim wasn’t about to admit that).

“Okay, whatever,” McCoy said.  “The point is, he _knows_ you and he probably trusts you a hell of a lot more than he trusts me – if he trusts anybody at all at this point.”

Jim quieted.  “They’ve been hurting him?”

McCoy put his hand on Jim’s shoulder.  “For what it’s worth, he’s been taking it like a champ.”

“That’s not very comforting,” Jim informed him.

McCoy shrugged.  “I’m a surgeon, not a psychologist,” he said.  “Life sucks.  Deal.”

“What’ve they been doing to him?”

“Torture,” McCoy said bluntly.  Jim flinched a bit.  “What, did you think they were making daisy chains or something?”

“I just,” Jim looked down at his hands.  “No.”

“Look, the specifics don't really matter.  The point is—”

“I get what you’re asking,” Jim said.  He gestured to the other people in the room, most of whom, now that Jim had been untied and seemed to pose no threat, were involved in small, tense conversations of their own.  “You want me to come help rescue Spock.  Why can’t any of these people do it?  What did you have to go to the trouble of tracking me down for?”

It was Pike who answered him.  “Because,” he said.  “Aside from myself and you, most everyone else here is considered a loyal citizen.  We’re already risking a lot getting McCoy involved in this.  He’s probably going to go underground afterward.”

“Like I care,” McCoy muttered.  “Fucking bastards at the Bureau.  Taking Spock away from them might not make things square between us, but it is a huge step in the right direction.”

Jim considered this.  “I’m really supposed to be dead?”

“Yeah,” Pike said gravely.  “Apparently you died in a freak accident – your house exploded.  Such a tragedy after you barely escaped death in the desert, too.  God must have had it out for you.”

“Oh,” said Jim, kind of shocked but not really.  “Did they give me a fancy funeral?”

“All the trappings,” said Pike.  He looked into Jim’s eyes, his own blazing with intent.  “We can’t make you do this,” he said.

“Yes, we can,” said McCoy.

“But what have you got to lose?” continued Pike.  “That’s why you came to San Francisco in the first place, right?”

Jim swallowed, and examined the floor.  For a moment he was back in Death Valley with Spock.  The heat was excruciating, yet he could feel the warmth of Spock’s body sleeping beside his in that infernal tent and it did not bother him.  Here was someone who he had met only a few days ago, but still he knew, without a doubt, that Spock would do anything in his power to get Jim out of the desert alive.  That was a powerful feeling.

Jim looked up.  “When we were in the desert and I was about to die,” he started, “Spock told me that he wasn’t going to leave me behind.  He said something like, ‘By saving your life once, I have assumed responsibility for it.  I cannot leave you here.’” Jim shrugged.  “And then he – and I swear to god this is true – he picked me up and _literally_ carried me to safety.  So I guess,” he coughed a bit awkwardly.  “I guess if I’m Spock’s responsibility, then he’s mine too, is what I’m saying.”

“So . . .” said McCoy after a pause, “are you saying you’re in?”

Jim’s eyes gleamed.  “I’m in.”


	8. Soar with the Wind III

**Soar with the Wind III**  
  
“This is a terrible idea,” said Jim.  He crossed his arms and tilted his chin up.  “Seriously, who came up with this plan?”  
  
McCoy scowled at him.  “We all did,” he said.  
  
Jim rubbed his temples, sagging into the armchair nearest to him.  They were still in the basement of the nightclub, but dawn had broken some time ago and the sounds of thumping feet, drink glasses and music, were gone.  In their place was the noise of a morning in the capitol; cars and daytime voices and the swishing of sober clothing rose above the cacophony of the shouters at the street market just a few doors down, all punctuated by the occasional, distant siren.  
  
“Plan by committee,” said Jim.  “Shit.”  
  
McCoy arched an eyebrow at him, challenging.  “Like you could do any better?” he drawled.  “Pike said it was fine.”  
  
Jim took a swig of coffee, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.  He stood up, suddenly decisive.  “Pike was an admiral,” he said dismissively.  “This is different.  This is like, covert operations shit.  He had people to plan that for him.”  
  
“And I guess you’re going to say you were conveniently one of those people, right?” McCoy shook his head.  “Listen kid, I work there.  This plan—”  
  
“The plan is bullshit!” Jim snapped.  “I can fix it.  Do you want my help or not?”  
  
Tabatha Chong stepped into the sudden silence of the room.  An infinitely more practical pair of black slacks and an orange blouse had replaced her dress from the previous night.  She held a data pad under one arm, and a box of muffins in her free hand.  
  
“I hate to say it, but Kirk’s kind of right, Leonard,” she said.  She placed the box on the counter.  Chekov’s eyes lit up and he immediately dove for it.  “We all know the plan sucks.”  
  
McCoy’s lips formed a thin line.  “Well, none of us could come up with any better,” he said.  He looked at Jim, then at Tabatha.  “His new plan had better not get us all killed,” he growled.  
  
Kirk frowned.  “I’m not— look.  We’ve got to do the unexpected.  If the Bureau is thinking anyone is stupid enough to try and rescue Spock, then they’re thinking it’s going to be me, right?”  
  
“Honestly, I don’t think they’ve even got that part figured out yet,” said McCoy.  “You’re giving the bastards way too much credit.”  
  
“Whatever,” said Jim.  He accepted the box of muffins from Tabatha, who had rescued it from Chekov’s clutches.  “Thanks, Tabatha.”  
  
“Her name’s not Tabatha,” said McCoy.  
  
“Shut it, Bones,” said Jim.  
  
“I told you to stop calling me that, you damn fool child,” McCoy hissed at him.  
  
Jim took a bite of muffin.  “Never,” he said.  “Anyway, the point is that they’re thinking any operation is going to be a sort of one man operation, at night, blah, blah, blah.  Okay, but that’s stupid.”  
  
“What,” McCoy said slowly through his teeth, “is stupid about it?”  
  
Jim shrugged.  “Why go in at night, trying to break through security codes and shit, when we can just get in through the front door?”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” said McCoy, mockingly.  “Maybe it’s because of your status as a wanted man?  And all the security cameras?”  
  
Jim gave him a look, and then a grin.  “Please,” he said.  “Just trust me on this.”  
  
McCoy slumped down into his own chair.  “When we’re all arrested or shot,” he said.  “You’d better hope your jail cell isn’t next to mine.”  
  
Jim fluttered his eyelashes at him.  “Aw, Bones,” he said.  “I didn’t know you cared so.”  Then he pulled out his data pad and turned it on.  “Okay,” he said.  “Where did you say they were keeping him?”  
  
“Underground,” McCoy grunted.  “Third level.”  
  
Jim waved his hand for McCoy to continue.  
  
“Alcatraz,” McCoy added reluctantly.  “I already told you that, Jim.”  
  
“Yeah but how do you get to work?  I mean, people’d start to notice if a bunch of feds visited a tourist attraction every morning.”  
  
McCoy exhaled.  “I already told you.  There’s an office near the port, and a train that goes under the bay.”  
  
“And that’s how you were planning to go rescue him, right?”  
  
“Obviously,” said McCoy.  
  
Jim rested his hands with his chin.  “I’ve always wanted to visit Alcatraz,” he said idly.  
  
McCoy’s eyes widened.  “Oh my god, Jim.  No.  That’s not going to work.”  
  
Jim cocked his head.  “Hell yeah it will,” he said.  
  
“The tourist attraction doesn’t connect to the underground part at all!” said McCoy.  “They just happen to be built on top of one another on the same island.  You can’t get to Spock from the old prison.  It’s not possible.”  
  
“Look,” said Jim.  “I know the Bureau, okay?  They might not’ve told you about it, but there’s definitely got to be a way to the surface of that island.  You’ve always got to have multiple exits.”  
  
“And how do you propose we find it, genius?”  
  
Jim was already working on his data pad.  “There’s got to be a blueprint, or a map or something.”  
  
“You already said you couldn’t find anything the last time you hacked into the Bureau’s database.”  
  
“Yeah, but last time I didn’t know what I was looking for.  Give me your access code.”  
  
“What?” McCoy squawked.  
  
“Just do it, McCoy,” said Tabatha Chong.  
  
With a dubious look, McCoy told him the code.  “I can’t help if they arrest me before we even get this thing off the ground,” he said.  
  
“Don’t worry,” said Jim.  He worked for a few more minutes, tongue between his teeth.  
  
“How much time are you going to need?” McCoy asked after a while.  
  
Jim shrugged.  “Dunno.  Depends how long it takes to find the right blueprint.”  
  
“And how long is that?”  
  
“I just said, I don’t know,” Jim repeated.  “Don’t you have something to do, Doctor?  Like a job?”  
  
“I still have an hour until work.”  
  
“Well, go early or something.  You’re giving me the creeps, staring over my shoulder like that.”  
  
“I should never have fixed your nose,” McCoy said snidely.  He stood from the chair and stretched.  
  
“Have a nice day,” said Jim, still squinting at the screen.  
  
“Right,” McCoy said.  He stumped over to the door leading upstairs, pulling a light jacket on as he went.  He hesitated at the doorknob.  “Um,” he said.  “Is there any, I don’t know, message or something you want me to pass on to Spock?  I mean, if I see him today, I don’t know . . .”  
  
Jim looked up at him.  He bit his lip, expression suddenly thoughtful.  “No,” he said finally.  “No, don’t tell him anything.  It’s better if he doesn’t know until we come and get him.  Then he can’t give anything away.”  
  
“He’s kind of a stubborn asshole, I’ve noticed,” said McCoy over his shoulder.  “Maybe he won’t want to leave.”  
  
That startled a laugh out of Jim.  “You noticed that too?  Man, I had the worse time getting him to even talk to me for like, the first three days.”  
  
“You had better luck than I’ve had for weeks,” said McCoy.  
  
Jim sobered.  “He saved my life though,” he said.  “He didn’t have to do that.  I owe him big.”  
  
“Well,” McCoy said, hand still stretched awkwardly toward the door.  He dropped it, meeting Jim’s gaze.  “This’ll probably go a long way toward paying off that debt.”  He turned back, and opened the door.  
  
“Yeah,” Jim said.  He looked down at the screen.  “I guess.”  
  
McCoy left.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Spock had not eaten in three point six three days.  Or was it three point six five?  He set his mouth in a thin line and closed his eyes.  Meditation was becoming more difficult.  He could feel weakness stealing over his body like the cold drafts of his isolated cell.  His injuries – and his inability to go safely into a healing trance – were taking their toll.  Without meditation, it was becoming more difficult to organize his thoughts, control his emotions.  
  
And there _were_ emotions.  He could feel them simmering below his placid veneer, an impotent rage of a free creature caged, hurt, so _angry_.  He forced them down into his belly, where they bubbled and broiled.  His stomach hurt.  Was it lack of food?  Of water?  
  
These humans.  He had been a fool for even thinking that his coming here would do one iota of good.  Such a brutal species deserved their fate.  Such a species did not have the right to Vulcan’s aid.  Such a—  
  
Spock’s eyes shot open.  
  
No, such thoughts were beneath him.  It was not logical to blame an entire planet for the actions of a few.  He took a deep breath, and then another.  Calm.  He needed to center himself.  Be in the now.  
  
As a young child on Vulcan, he had partaken in games of _ov’din pohshaya_.  The game was fairly simple, intended to teach children the rudiments of geometry as applied to moving objects.  A series of small targets, each no larger than a coin, were set up in a semicircle.  The first child would aim a glass bead at their intended target.  The next child would shoot their own glass bead at the first child’s, with the intent to intercept the first bead with proper amount of force and at the correct angle to change its course towards a new target.  A third child would then also attempt to change the course of the original bead, and so on and so on.  There were many variations to the game of course, but the principle of it remained the same: the correct angle, the correct velocity, the correct moment.  
  
Like with _ov’din pahshaya_ , Spock knew there would come a proper moment to change his circumstances.  All he could do now was wait and hope to recognize it.  
  
And so he waited.  
  
He waited through isolation, through torment with water, through fear that felt as though it had climbed into the base of his skull and refused to be dislodged.  He attempted again to meditate, controlling the pain, this time with marginally more success.  He slept a little, did not speak, and did not eat (there was no food).  He waited.  And waited.  
  
And then it happened.  
  
 _“Spock.”_  
  
Spock woke up, his arm aching.  A voice, a voice had spoken his name.  He looked around his cell.  Still empty.  He must have dreamed the voice, perhaps.  He frowned ever so slightly, and looked to the locked door.  He stood, limbs sore from disuse, and stiff, and walked toward it.  
  
The single light above him dimmed and flickered.  Spock blinked up at it.  What an inefficient—  
  
It winked out, plunging him into utter blackness.  Spock stood stock-still.  An electrical outage, perhaps?  He reached his hand towards the door, but before his fingers could make contact with the cold metal, it swung open on its own to reveal . . . someone.  Someone whose face he could not see in the darkness.  
  
The person in front of him was breathing harshly, as though they had just run a great distance, although Spock could not recall hearing any footsteps outside in the hall.  
  
Spock tensed as he felt the figure move closer.  Would it attempt to attack him?  All the evidence he had so far gathered in this particular institution leaned heavily towards the affirmative.  Spock took stock of himself.  His arm was still broken, and he was weak from lack of food and water.  Even so, he reasoned, he could likely still best whomever stood in front of him.  Even in his current state, he was stronger than the average human.  If he could locate the correct nerve in the darkness, he would be able to fell his opponent with a single nerve pinch.  
  
The person drew in a quick breath.  
  
“Spock?” it whispered hesitantly.  “Please tell me that’s you.  I can’t see a damn thing.”  
  
Most illogically, Spock felt very weak at the knees.  He knew that voice.  He took a step forward, and then another, close enough to touch the person.  The man in front of him remained motionless.  
  
Spock stretched out his hand and felt a rough cloth beneath his fingertips.  A shoulder.  The figure started, but did not move away.  Spock’s touch traveled up towards the bare skin of the face.  He let the pads of his fingers graze a smooth cheek.  
  
There.  He knew those chaotic, sifting surface thoughts.  How could he not?  
  
“Jim?”  
  
He heard Jim breath a sigh of relief.  “Oh, thank god.  Can you walk?  Actually,” he moved closer, catching Spock’s hand and giving it a squeeze before dropping it.  “Actually, running would be better.”  
  
“Jim?” Spock repeated, still dazed.  “Jim Kirk?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s me,” Jim said again, more urgency to his voice this time.  “The guy whose life you saved.  I’m returning the favor, now come on!”  
  
“Why—”  
  
Jim grabbed the wrist of his good arm.  Spock winced as a sense of anxiety, fear, and relief filled his body.  “No time for stupid questions, let’s go.”  He tugged at Spock’s arm, and began to lead him out of the cell into the hallway, shutting the door of Spock’s cell behind them.  
  
Spock followed.  
  
They moved at a slow jog.  Occasionally they would encounter flashlight beams, but Jim proved adept at avoiding them each time.  After about five minutes, they stopped.  
  
“Jim,” Spock said.  He was beginning to feel dizzy.  
  
“Shh,” Jim said.  “After we’re out of here.”  
  
Spock heard the creak of a door, before Jim dragged him inside.  
  
“Supply closet,” said Jim, as Spock banged into a shelf and several objects came tumbling down around him.  “Also?  Our way out.”  He kept moving back towards the end of the – startlingly large — closet.  “I hope to god you can climb a ladder,” Jim said, and Spock was surprised to hear his voice come from above him.  
  
“My arm is broken,” said Spock.  
  
Jim paused.  Spock heard the thump as he landed back on the ground.  “Okay,” he said.  “Okay.  Here, you go first.  I’ll help you.”  He guided Spock’s hand to a metal rung.  
  
“I am heavy,” Spock said, when what he really wanted to say was, _I am heavier than you.  My bones and muscles are denser than yours.  I am an alien._  
  
“Just go!” hissed Jim, giving him a shove.  “I don’t care if you’re heavy, move your ass!”  
  
Spock began to climb.  
  
It was a long ascent.  Spock’s arm grew sore from clutching onto the rungs, his legs began to tremble from keeping his body balanced on a ladder with only one good arm.  Below him, Jim whispered what he thought might be encouragement.  Telling him to keep going, that he would not let him fall.  
  
Spock’s head hit something.  His controls now heavily frayed, he swore in Vulcan.  
  
“What was that?” Jim asked.  
  
“I cannot go any further,” Spock said through gritted teeth.  “There is something in the way.”  
  
“Oh!” said Jim.  “Oh, oh!  Okay, wait.  There’s a code.  I have to input a code.  We’ve got to trade spots.”  
  
“What,” said Spock flatly.  
  
“Here, just move over a bit.”  
  
“I cannot,” Spock said, hearing Jim scrabbling below him.  “I— Jim.  I’m going to—”  Spock wrapped his arm around the sides of the ladder as tightly as he could, flinching as Jim stepped on his foot and his head popped up next to Spock’s.  Spock could barely make out the shape of his nose in the darkness.  
  
“Sorry,” Jim said.  He reached up and tapped in a code on a small keypad next to the ladder.  “That should do it,” he grunted, as most of his weight came to rest on a single foot.  
  
Above them, a small circular exit began to slide open.  Spock could see daylight through it.  His hair had grown longer during his captivity, but it was still barely sufficient to cover his ears.  He could do nothing about the angles to his eyebrows, nor the greenish pallor of his face.  Without his disguise, Spock felt naked.  How long would Jim stand beside him, once he realized Spock’s true identity?  
  
“Time to go,” said Jim, heaving himself up out of the hole.  Spock followed suit, ignoring the throbbing of his arm.  Jim was already ahead of him, bent over behind some machinery.  They had arrived in what appeared to be a small building.  Peering outside a barred window, Spock could just barely make out that it was midmorning.  A grey fog covered the land as far as he could see.  
  
“Jim,” he said, steeling himself.  Truth was honorable.  Vulcans did not lie.  “There’s something I need to—” He stopped as several garments made contact with his head.  He pulled one off his face, disgruntled.  
  
“Brought you clothes,” Jim said over his shoulder, still digging for something.  “Oh, here’s a hat, too.  It’s kind of chilly outside.”  He threw a black knitted cap at Spock without looking.  Spock immediately jammed it over his head.   He eyed the rest of the clothes: trousers, a shirt, and a jacket.   “Put them on, Spock,” Jim said, tapping his foot.  “People are going to notice if you walk around in prison gear.  Although maybe they’d just think you’re part of the tour or something.”  
  
“Tour?” Spock ventured, still clutching the clothes in his hands.  At Jim’s pointed look, he began to reluctantly remove the shirt his captors had given him.  
  
“Yeah,” said Jim.  He huffed a laugh.  “We’re on the island of Alcatraz.  Some Bureau prison, huh?”  
  
“Quite,” said Spock, who had never heard the word Alcatraz before in his life.  He zipped up his new jeans.  They were a bit too loose and a bit too short, but they would suffice.  
  
“You might need a belt,” Jim said, examining him from a distance.  
  
Spock met his gaze.  Jim looked— different than he had the last time they had met.  Of course, his ankle had healed and he was no longer burned and dehydrated, but there was something else.  There was a harder glint to his eye that had not been there before, and dark circles marred his face.  
  
“Perhaps,” Spock said.  He was going to say more, but Jim had already turned away, moving towards the door.  
  
“We’ve got about five more minutes until the generator here,” he slapped the side of the machine, “starts working again.  Power should be out in the rest of the city for another twenty or so though.”  
  
“Pardon?” said Spock.  “Power— to an entire city?”  
  
Jim shrugged.  “Made more sense to knock it all out instead of just targeting Alcatraz.  Looks less suspicious that way.  This island actually used to generate all its own power, but in the name of modernization and needing more of it, they just hooked it up to the city grid.  The generator is just a back-up now.”  His lips twisted, tossing a wrench from one hand to the other, then tapping it on the side of the generator.  “I just love old technology.  So unreliable.”  
  
“I see,” said Spock.  Jim was looking at him again.  Spock adjusted his hat.  
  
“I’m sorry,” said Jim suddenly, noticing Spock’s stare.  
  
“What?”  
  
Jim looked down at the floor.  “Look, I don’t know why the hell the Bureau wanted you so damn bad, but you probably wouldn’t have gotten caught if it weren’t for helping me out.” He ran a hand through his hair.  “So, yeah.  I’m sorry.”  
  
Spock hesitated.  “There is no guarantee that I would not have been . . . taken, even if I had not helped you.”  
  
“Yeah, but your chances would have been a lot better,” Jim said bluntly.  “I’m not an idiot.”  
  
Spock looked down.  “ _Kaidith_ ,” he murmured.  
  
“What?”  
  
Spock’s head rose.  “It’s a saying,” he heard himself say.  “What is, is.  My actions and your response have brought us to this point.  I do not begrudge you my assistance.”  
  
Jim stared at him for a moment, then cracked a slow smile.  “God, you know I’d forgotten you talked like that,” he said.  “I uh,” he faltered, shoving his hands into his back pockets.  
  
Spock tilted his head.  
  
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Jim said.  Then he winced.  “I mean, I know you probably went through some terrible shit, but I’m glad that you’re, you know— alive.”   
  
Spock blinked.  “I am in your debt,” he said, and watched in fascination as Jim’s face turned red.  
  
“No, no,” Jim said, waving his hands.  “We’re just even now, okay?  I mean, we went through some tough times together a while back.  That’s what friends— or, or whatever, you know.  Buddies, comrades in arms, all that.  That’s what you do, you know?”  
  
“Break into government facilities?” Spock said, pretty certain he was missing something in the translation.  His mother had not mentioned any such practice.  Then again, he was not familiar with the term ‘buddies.’  
  
Jim made a choking noise, then could not seem to contain another small smile.  “Sure,” he said.  
  
“Very well,” Spock said, uncertain how one was supposed to respond to that.  He opened his mouth again.  If Jim thought of him as a comrade in arms, he could not leave the human in ignorance.  Besides, as the government of the North American Collective was already aware of his otherworldly status, clearly the time for secrecy with the being who seemed to be his best chance of returning to Vulcan alive, had passed.  “Jim,” he said stiffly.  “I need to make you aware that I am not who I appear to be.”  
  
“Look, Spock,” Jim said.  He grimaced.  “If that is your name.”  
  
“It is.”  
  
“Huh,” said Jim.  “Okay.”  He gave himself a shake, stepping over discarded bits of rusty machinery and closer to Spock.  He put a hand on Spock’s shoulder.  Spock resisted the urge to remove it.  “Anyway, the point is, it doesn’t matter if you’re a spy or whatever.  I’m already in deep.  They—” he took a breath.  “Look, I don’t really want to go into this right now, because we’ve got places to be, but the Bureau wants me dead just as much as you.”  He grimaced.  “No, okay, that didn’t come out right.  I mean, they want you, and they know I talked to you, so they want me too, so I should probably be mad, but.  See, you saved my life.  That’s worth something.  They might want me, but it’s because of you that I’m alive to be . . . wanted . . .” he made a face.  “In the first place.”  
  
“You were fulfilling a debt,” Spock said, not quite sure where Jim was going with his ramblings.  
  
“Well, yeah,” Jim looked uncomfortable.  “But I mean, not just that.  They—” he stared at his feet, “I knew they had you,” he said, voice quieter.  “I’ve seen what the Bureau can do to people.  No one deserves that.”  
  
Spock got the sense that Jim was not telling him the whole truth.  Then again, Spock thought to himself, he wasn’t exactly telling Jim the whole truth either, so in this respect they were even.  
  
“I am gratified for your assistance,” Spock said, attempting to head off any more emotionalism.  “No matter your motives, the results remain the same, do they not?”  
  
Jim quirked his lips.  “You are such a pragmatist,” he said.  “Okay, we’ll finish this up later.  We’ve got a boat to catch.”  
  
Spock felt his eyes widen before he could stop them.  “A boat?”  
  
“Yep,” Jim said, something of a smug smile playing in the tiny wrinkles around his eyes.  
  
“Is a boat not . . . inefficient?” Spock attempted to ask delicately.  
  
Jim snorted.  “We’re on an island, Spock.  The only way off is by boat, sky or tunnel.  And the Bureau’s got the tunnel part nice and covered for us.”  He strode over to a grey wooden door on the other side of the small building, and eased it open.  “We’re on the northeast part of the island,” he said as Spock came up behind him.  “The main dock is south of here, but not much so we’re trying to be subtle.  Lucky everything’s fog until noontime.”  
  
“Indeed,” Spock muttered, looking at the weather with something akin to distaste.  Sol III was such a . . . wet planet.  He could only hope that Jim would take them somewhere dry.  
  
“Down here,” Jim said, leading him down a grassy bank.  It was slippery, and Spock was forced to move with care.  “Go slow.”  
  
Nearly at the water’s edge, Jim gestured to Spock to keep following him, then turned left and started to walk along the edge of the shore.  Spock wrinkled his nose as a salty, tangy smell assailed his nostrils.  He stepped carefully after Jim.  The water-smoothed rocks were slippery with some sort of plant matter, and he took cautious strides from one stone to the other, his legs still somewhat wobbly from the long climb to the island’s surface.  
  
Ahead of Spock, Jim halted at a brush tangle of thickets.  He put his fingers in his mouth, and blew two sharp whistles.  Spock could not help staring at the digits in Jim’s mouth.  On Vulcan, such an action would be considered beyond vulgar.  And here it was merely a form of communication?  
  
What a strange planet.  
  
Jim whistled again.  
  
“Kirk?” said a new, muffled voice.  
  
Spock froze.  Jim turned to give him an exasperated look. He waved Spock closer.  
  
 “Kirk, is that you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Jim said to the thicket.  
  
“You got him?” came the reply.  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
A man emerged from behind the thicket.  He was about Jim’s height, perhaps slightly shorter.  His hair and eyes were both dark, his face slightly rounded.  He wore a green jacket made of a slick looking material, jeans, and open toed shoes.  He stared at Spock with open interest.  
  
Jim gave him a quick grin.  “Sulu, Spock.  Spock, this is Hikaru Sulu.  He’s with me.”  
  
Sulu’s eyes focused on Jim.  “He doesn’t look weird,” he said.  “You sure he’s the guy?  Or the . . . whatever?”  
  
“Of course I’m sure,” said Jim, Sulu’s intent perusal of Spock going completely over his head.  “Come on, get the boat.  We’ve got to go.”  
  
“This is fucking bizarre,” Sulu muttered under his breath.  But Spock could still hear him.  He looked at Sulu sharply.  Did this human know?  But then, how could he, if Jim still seemed oblivious?  
  
Jim watched Sulu trudge out of sight for a moment, then come back, this time dragging at the bow of what seemed to be a large, hollow structure.  Spock could see that it was formed of a metal alloy and tapered at the front and back.  
  
The boat.  
  
Jim held onto the bow, steadying it with his knees as Sulu clambered towards the stern.  He sat at the bench in the very back and grabbed a double bladed paddle, which he then shoved vertically into the water and into the mix of sand and pebbles at the bottom.  The craft tilted minutely.  
  
Spock eyed it.  “It does not appear stable,” he observed, not at all shifting his weight backwards, away from the two humans and their dangerous ideas.  
  
Jim rolled his eyes.  “It’s fine, Spock,” he said.  “Now hurry the fuck up.”  
  
“I am not a strong swimmer,” Spock said.  
  
“Spock,” Jim said.  “Get in the fucking canoe.”  
  
“It will remain properly buoyant?”  
  
“They don’t have canoes where you’re from?” Sulu asked.  
  
Spock could not tell if he was behaving sympathetically or laughing at Spock’s expense.  He sighed.  “Very well,” he said, gingerly making his way over to Jim.  
  
“Step into it, and grab the side to balance yourself.”  
  
Spock gave a jerky nod, sacrificed an illogical moment to lamenting his useless broken arm, and stepped into the boat.  It wobbled terrifically, but did not tip.  
  
“Sit in the middle,” said Jim.  Spock half-sat, half-fell into the middle spot.  Water sloshed up the sides.  He watched as Jim grabbed the second double bladed paddle, shoved the canoe off a little further into the water, then quickly climbed in and pushed them off the rest of the way.  
  
“And we’re off,” Jim said, dipping his paddle into the water.  “Hopefully, they’ll be too distracted to notice you missing for a bit longer.”  
  
“I cannot see how that is possible,” Spock said, half invested in the conversation, half invested in making sure the boat really wasn’t going to flip them over into the unforgiving cold of the water.  He watched the shore of the island recede into the fog under Sulu and Jim’s swift strokes with the paddles.  
  
Still facing front, Jim shrugged.  “The cameras are rigged to show old footage.  Unless someone goes in there, it’s still going to look like you’re meditating on the floor.”  
  
Spock was silent as he digested Jim’s words.  The presence of an accomplice and such forethought into Spock’s release implied that Spock’s rescue was part of something larger in scope.  Something he had no knowledge of.  
  
“Jim,” he said.  “Why did you come for me?”  
  
Jim stiffened.  “I told you,” he said.  “I owed you one.”  
  
“But there is more,” Spock said, certain now.  He watched Jim’s shoulders slump imperceptibly.  Behind him, he could hear Sulu’s uncomfortable shifting, and the steady dip of the paddles into the water.  
  
“We can talk about it when we get onto the ship,” Jim said finally.  
  
“ _Ship?_ ” Spock said, distracted for the moment.  Then he folded his good arm in front of the other one.  “You are attempting to change the subject.  Do not think I am— ungrateful— for my extraction.  I simply . . .” he trailed off.  Tired, he was tired.  His head and arms and leg hurt.  He pushed the pain away.  “I simply desire the whole story,” he said.  
  
Jim was quiet for a few seconds.  “I promise,” he said, voice echoing strangely in the fog on the open water.  “I’ll tell you when we get to the ship.”  
  
“Speaking of which,” Sulu piped up from the back.  Both Spock and Jim turned to look at him.  Sulu gestured with his paddle at a form that was slowly materializing from the fog.  “I think that’s her now.”  
  
The ship was a great deal larger than the canoe.  They bumped up against the side of the hull, and a few moments later, a ladder was lowered down to meet them.  Spock tried withhold his displeasure at having to climb yet another ladder with his broken arm.  
  
“You first, Jim,” said Sulu.  
  
Jim nodded.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Spock, wait for a few seconds and I’ll see if we can just have them lift you up.”  
  
“I am fully capable of climbing the ladder,” Spock said.  
  
“Funny,” Jim told him, before grabbing hold of it and shimmying up as quickly you please.  
  
“I do not understand what was humorous about my statement,” Spock grumbled.  Behind him, Sulu bit back a smile.  
  
“Okay, Spock next!” Jim called down.  
  
Spock looked at Sulu, who gave him a nod, “After you, Mr. Spock,” he said.  
  
Spock grit his teeth and lunged for the ladder, the canoe sloshing side to side as he did so.  He bumped his bad arm against the steel side of the boat and wrapped his body around the ladder as best he could.  “I am ready,” he called up to Jim, ignoring the discomfort of the rope digging into his legs and stomach.   The ladder began to move, and Spock was slowly drawn up to the deck.  
  
As he reached the top, hands grasped for his upper arms and pulled him up the rest of the way.  Spock accepted their assistance and soon found himself standing on the deck of the ship surrounded by a semicircle of humans, Jim among them.  
  
“Lower it back down for Sulu,” said a voice.  Spock looked for it, and found himself confronted with a woman only slightly shorter than he was.  She stepped towards him.  “Are you Spock Grayson?”  
  
“I am,” said Spock, measuring her as much as she seemed to be measuring him.  His good arm hung loosely at his side, and he felt the urge to clasp it behind his back.  
  
“Nice to meet you,” she said.  “I’m Nyota Uhura.”  
  
“Ha, knew it wasn’t Tabatha,” came Jim’s mutter.  Spock didn’t look at him.  He could sense what was coming next.  
  
“Welcome to,” she grimaced as she took in Spock’s injuries.  “Welcome to Earth.”  
  
Shoulders tense, Spock glanced at Jim, who was blinking at Uhura as if she had grown a second head.  Jim looked back at Spock, confused.  He looked back at Uhura, then at Spock again.  
  
It took all of his considerable training, but Spock met his gaze, unflinching.  
  
“Spock?” Jim said.  “What’s she going on about?”  
  
Spock swallowed.  He looked away.  
  
“Tabatha?” Spock heard Jim ask.  The rest of the humans were silent.  “What are you talking about?”  
  
“It’s Uhura,” came the soft reply.    “Jim, you didn’t know?  Look at him!”  
  
From somewhere, Spock gathered the courage to face them.  “He did not,” he heard himself say, surprised at the steadiness of his own voice.  He planted his aching feet a little wider apart and slid the cap from his head, revealing the points of his ears almost defiantly.  “My name is S’chn T’gai Spock,” he said, splitting his fingers into the _ta’al._ “Live long, and prosper.”  
  
Silence descended on the deck.  Spock reminded himself to breath.  
  
“Jim,” Spock ventured.  
  
Jim met his gaze, mouth moving every so slightly.  His eyes kept flicking from Spock’s ears to his eyebrows, to the green blood oozing from a re-opened cut on his forehead.  
  
“What the hell?” Jim said faintly.  “No one thought this was worth a mention?”  
  
“Jim?”  Spock took a step forward.  Jim would not look him in the eye.  Why wouldn’t he look at him?  
  
Jim stumbled back.  “No, don’t— don’t.  Don’t touch me.” He drew in a sharp breath, shooting an accusing glance at Uhura.  “What, all you guys knew this and didn’t think to fucking _say_ anything?”  
  
“We thought you already knew!” Uhura retorted at the same time Spock said,  
  
“Jim, I—”  
  
“This whole time you— what the hell, Spock?  What the fucking hell?  You’re some kind of—  You—”  
  
“Jim, please listen to me,” Spock said.  “I—”  
  
“No,” Jim said, voice high pitched, staring at Spock as if he had never seen him before.  “No, I can’t deal with this shit right now.  This is ri-fucking-diculous.  I just risked my life for you and you’re not even human?”  He backed up some more, gave Spock a last, fleeting look that the Vulcan could not decipher, then strode away, boots clicking on the deck of the ship, fists clenched at his sides.  
  
Spock steeled himself and focused on Nyota Uhura.  “Are you the captain of this ship?” he queried.  
  
She shrugged, watching him with some amount of caution.  “It belongs to my family.”  
  
“Am I to understand that I am now a prisoner here?”  
  
She shook her head firmly.  “No, of course not,” she said.  “Although I think we’ll have to talk about some things.”  
  
In this, Spock was in agreement with her.  “Indeed,” he said.  He hesitated.  “I appear to have caused Jim Kirk some emotional distress,” he said tentatively.  “Please, understand it was not my intention to do so.”  
  
“You might say that,” came a familiar voice.  Spock whirled around.  
  
“You!” he said, any calm he had gathered immediately shattered.  
  
The object of his attention pulled a frown and crossed his arms.  “What, all that time together and you don’t even remember my name?”  
  
“McCoy,” said Spock.  
  
McCoy sighed, and drew the hood off his yellow rain slicker.  “Don’t look at me like I’m a monster.  You think Jim could’ve got you out without any inside help?” He gave Spock a hard look.  
  
Spock pressed his lips together.  “Forgive me if I am somewhat disinclined to trust you,” he said flatly.  
  
McCoy ignored his silence.  He stomped up into Spock’s personal space.  Spock held his ground.  
  
“You mean to tell me,” McCoy said, “that Jim Kirk didn’t even _know_ you were an alien?”  
  
“Yes,” Spock said, feeling as though this was rather obvious.  
  
“Lord almighty,” McCoy said.  “How the hell not?”  
  
“Perhaps this is a conversation best left for elsewhere, Doctor,” said Spock in a low voice, very aware of the others surrounding them.  
  
McCoy’s eyes flickered over to Uhura.  She gave a slight nod.  
  
“Fine,” McCoy said.  
  
“We’ll debrief in an hour,” Uhura announced to the other five humans present.  “Spock . . .” she approached him slowly, as if afraid he might attack her.  Spock could hardly blame her.  He was, after all, an alien.  “I’ll show you somewhere you can rest up for a bit.”  
  
Spock considered her for a moment, and then inclined his head.  She beckoned to him, and he followed her past McCoy and the other humans, off the top deck, and into the bowels of the ship.  
  



	9. Soar with the Wind IV

**Soar with the Wind IV**  
  
“My name is S’chn T’gai Spock,” Spock said to the gathering of humans in front of him.  Among their faces he recognized Nyota Uhura and Sulu, as well as, from his time in captivity, Doctor McCoy.  The room was small to hold fifteen, a conference room towards the aft of the ship.  He did not see Jim.  
  
“Thanks, Spock.  We got that part already.”  
  
Spock turned a penetrating gaze on McCoy.  “I was taken to understand you wished for me to introduce myself,” he said.  “Was I incorrect?”  
  
“No, you were right,” said Uhura hastily, seeing McCoy about to open his mouth again, likely to the detriment of all.  
  
An awkward silence fell.  
  
“So Mr. Spock, you are an alien, yes?” came a voice from the corner.  
  
Spock turned towards the speaker.  He appeared young by human standards, his form still gawky from adolescence.  The curls in his hair were damp from the light mist falling outside.  
  
“Yes,” Spock replied, ever cautious.  He watched with interest while McCoy put his hands over his face as the young human continued to speak.  
  
“Do you mind if we ask— what are you doing on Earth?  Are you planning an invasion?”  
  
“Kid, if he was planning an invasion I think we would all be dead by now,” McCoy said.  His eyes cut over to Spock.  “Or at least he would’ve been a lot better prepared.”  
  
“Vulcans are pacifists,” Spock said, drawing himself up.  “We do not invade other planets.  We follow the path of logic.”  He looked at Uhura.  “And I am not permitted to disclose the nature of my mission here.”  
  
McCoy looked livid.  “Why— we risked our lives for you!” he said.  “Doesn’t that deserve some sort of explanation?”  
  
“I did not ask you to do so,” Spock said.  
  
“Well, we didn’t ask you to come to our planet in the first place,” McCoy retorted.  
  
“I did not require your permission.”  
  
“No, clearly what you require is a kick in the—”  
  
“Enough,” Uhura cut in.  “Spock— May I call you Spock?”  
  
“It is unlikely that you could pronounce my full name,” said Spock.  
  
“Right.  Spock.  As you’ve probably noticed, we’re not government officials.”  
  
“Indeed,” replied Spock.  He pursed his lips, wondering if his father had ever had to deal with such characters.  “I had, in fact, postulated that you were either criminals or revolutionaries.”  
  
“It’s the second one,” the young human put in.  He frowned.  “Although perhaps this is wrong.  Sometimes we have to—”  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Chekov,” said Uhura smoothly.  She faced Spock again.  “We’re the Resistance,” she said.  She knit her brow, “I don’t know how much you know about Earth’s politics, maybe some background would help?”  
  
Spock tilted his head.  “Earth: the third planet in the Sol system.  Humanity, the dominant sentient species, has divided itself into nations roughly based on historical, cultural, linguistic and geographic similarities.  The North American Collective, South American National Group, The European Union and Russo-China are ruled by oligarchies.  Sub-Saharan West Africa and the Central African Republic are monarchies.  The South Pacific Collective is currently engaged in a conflict with the North American Collective, while the Middle East and the Balkan regions are in dispute.  The Japanese islands—”  
  
“Oh my god you are actually a textbook,” McCoy said.  “Please don’t go into the epidemic of 2060 and World War III.  That’s always so depressing.”  
  
“I am not a textbook.  I am a Vulcan.”  
  
“What, do you guys keep tabs on us or something?” Sulu asked, looking a bit wide-eyed at Spock’s nosedive into encyclopedic knowledge.  
  
“My father is an ambassador,” said Spock, which wasn’t an answer at all.  
  
“Anyway,” Uhura exhaled.  “Long story short, the Resistance is an international group devoted to overthrowing our various authorities and uniting Earth as one people.”  
  
Spock raised an unimpressed eyebrow.  “United as one people?  Under whose rule?  Yours?”  
  
Uhura looked taken aback.  “No one’s,” she said.  “Elected officials.  The rule of the people.”  
  
“It has been my experience,” Spock said quietly, “that such democratic societies are rarely as egalitarian as they appear on the outside.”  
  
“With all due respect, Mr. Spock,” Uhura said, meeting his eyes squarely.  “This is not your planet.  Any step towards egalitarianism is a step we need.  If we continue at our current rate of conflict, who knows where we’ll be in the next one hundred years?  Facing down nuclear winter?”  She turned towards the others in the room, their faces grim in agreement.  “There’s too much greed in power,” she said, turning back to look at Spock.  “That’s why they took you.  They wanted what you know.”  
  
“And you do not?” Spock said.  
  
Uhura made a dismissive wave with her hand.  “Of course we do,” she said.  “But to be honest, we’re much more interested in self-preservation than in stealing your secrets.”  
  
Spock furrowed his brow.  “I do not understand,” he said.  
  
“We don't want aliens who are more powerful than us to think that all humans are assholes,” McCoy said, blunting his way into the conversation.  He snorted.  “Well, I mean, we are all assholes,” he added.  “But not all of us are into torturing planetary guests.”  
  
Uhura looked resigned at his choice of words, then gave a nod.  
  
Spock hoped he didn’t look as perplexed as he felt.  It would speak poorly of his controls if he did.  “Vulcans are pacifists,” Spock said, certain he had already mentioned this.  “My decision to travel to Sol III was approved by the High Command, but I was aware of the risks involved.”  
  
“So . . . the fact that you were kidnapped by one of the governments and tortured for a bit less than a month isn’t something they’re going to care about?  Really?” McCoy sat back.  “They wouldn’t want to, I don’t know, come and teach us puny Earthlings a lesson in manners or anything?”  
  
“I do not believe so,” said Spock, after several moments of parsing McCoy’s peculiar dialect.  
  
“Un-fucking-believable,” said McCoy.  “That doesn’t qualify as an act of war?”  
  
Spock pursed his lips.  “Earth is a pre-warp planet,” he attempted to explain.  “The laws of our society dictate that we do not interfere with your development.  That includes declarations of war.”  
  
“So we’re just too primitive to bother with,” said McCoy.  
  
“If you were, I would not be here,” returned Spock.  McCoy narrowed his eyes, and Spock got the sense that he had just barely avoided some sort of verbal trap.  “Earth is not technologically capable of threatening Vulcan,” he continued.  “If, for example, I had been taken captive by Klingons, then Vulcan would consider that an act of aggression against us, and would take the appropriate action.”  
  
“What is a Klingon?” Chekov asked.  
  
“Another alien race,” Spock said shortly.  “They are the sort that might consider your planet a viable target.”  He paused, then added reluctantly, “Sol III lies within the Vulcan sphere of influence, which is likely why the Klingon Empire has not already paid your planet a visit.”  _If indeed they have not_ , he thought to himself, but did not say.  
  
“The Vulcan sphere of influence,” Uhura repeated.  “Huh.  So we’re sort of like, the baby down the block?”  
  
“I do not understand that reference,” said Spock.  
  
At that moment, another human entered the room.  She went over to Uhura, bent down, and whispered in her ear.  Uhura looked incredulous for a second, then her mouth tightened.  
  
“The Coast Guard’s calling to board,” she said.  “They say they’re looking for smugglers, but I doubt it.  Someone take Spock below, where they won’t see him.  He can bunk with Kirk.”  
  
“Bunk?” said Spock, as everyone else rose.  
  
“Come on,” said McCoy.  “I’ll show you where it’s at.”  He looked around for a second.  “Kirk!” he hollered.  
  
“He is not here,” Spock said.  
  
“Huh,” McCoy said.  “I swore I saw him.  Must still be mad at you or something.”  
  
“Time to move your ass, McCoy,” said Uhura tersely.  “Take him below.  If they find him on this ship, United East Africa is going to take the fall and we’re all fucked.”  
  
McCoy tugged at Spock’s elbow, and Spock followed him out.  
  
Jim Kirk was indeed in the room.  Actually, it was a room within a room, the door hidden behind a well-placed mirror.  There was a bunk bed with three levels, an off-white shelf set into the wall, and a single chair.  
  
“Every cargo ship captain is a smuggler at heart,” McCoy said, when Spock looked at him questioningly.  “This room’s pretty much impossible to find unless you know what you’re looking for.”  He sat down in the chair.  
  
Spock looked at Jim, who lay curled on the lower bunk, apparently sleeping.  
  
“Yep, I think he’s still mad,” said McCoy.  
  
“I do not understand,” Spock admitted.  
  
McCoy snorted.  “I don’t know, Spock.  Why don’t you tell me?”  
  
Spock raised an eyebrow.  “But I just said that I do not know.”  
  
McCoy gave him a rather unimpressed look, then rubbed at his temples.  “It’s because he trusted you and you lied to him,” he said, with the air of explaining something to a child.  
  
“I did not,” Spock said.  “Vulcans do not lie.  I merely omitted the fact of my alien identity.”  Even as he said them, the words left a sour tang in his mouth.  
  
McCoy stared.  “I need a drink,” he said.  
  
“Surely,” Spock said.  “Surely he understands the logic in my not revealing my identity to him?”  He was definitely not whining at this point.  
  
“I might just be poking in the dark, but something tell me that no, probably not.”  
  
“It was the logical decision,” Spock said.  He stared at his feet.  It might have been the logical decision, but it was not the fair one.  And yet, he did not know how to convey this to Jim.  
  
“You sound like you’re feeling pretty guilty about it,” McCoy said.  He held up his hand, “Just an observation, mind you.”  
  
“It would be the height of illogic to feel guilt for making the logical decision.”  
  
“That’s stupid,” said McCoy.  “Guilt’s what separates the sociopaths from the rest of us.  I’d just as soon never feel it, but it’s got a purpose.  Means you’re hu—” he pulled a face.  “. . . a good being,” he finished lamely.  “Anyway, what’s logic got to do with emotion at all?  Why do you care so much?”  
  
Spock huffed out a breath.  “Once, Vulcans were a wild race, ruled by our mercurial emotions,” he said, voice quiet.  
  
“Sounds dramatic,” McCoy commented.  
  
“On the brink of annihilation, Surak discovered that we might control ourselves through the application of logic.”  Spock’s mouth twisted.  “Although there are different levels of adherence to Surak’s precepts, and even some isolated communities that do not adhere to them at all, logic remains the very foundation of our civilization.  Without it, we would be little more than brutes, enslaved to our passions.”  
  
McCoy blinked at him.  “Huh,” he said finally, chin in his hands.  “So because of this Surak fellow, you’ve all got to control your emotions all the time?  Can’t allow yourselves to feel anything?”  
  
“Essentially,” Spock said.  McCoy’s interpretation was not entirely correct, but Spock preferred not to argue.  
  
“Sounds unhealthy to me.”  
  
“You are not Vulcan.  It is different.”  
  
“But still,” McCoy said, waving his hand.  Spock stifled a sigh.  Apparently there would be an argument anyway.  He was beginning to sense that McCoy was just an argumentative human, no matter if there was a just cause or not.  “How do you process anything?  Do you just jam it all up forever?”  
  
“I meditate,” said Spock.  “It functions to clear my mind and process the events that have occurred throughout the day.”  
  
“Like emotions?” McCoy pressed.  
  
Spock’s left eye twitched, “If necessary.”  
  
“So you do have them.  Even though you hide them, they’re there.”  
  
“Why are you so invested in this?” Spock questioned, attempting to put McCoy on the defensive.  Although Surak frowned upon wishes as a waste of one’s energy, he wished that Jim would wake up, if only to give McCoy someone else to focus on.  
  
McCoy adopted a wide-eyed look of innocence.  “I’m learning about an alien culture,” he said.  “I just want to know all I can.”  
  
Spock was not fooled, but he could not determine a way to say so without causing too much offense.  Although it might be briefly satisfying, alienating McCoy would not be wise at this juncture.  
  
“So, what about love?  Do Vulcans fall in love?”  
  
“I do not know,” Spock replied shortly.  
  
“Huh,” McCoy grunted.  “It’s kind of weird that billions of miles away there’s a planet with people so similar to us.  Two arms, two legs, similar societal concepts . . .”  
  
“I suppose,” Spock said.  “There are multiple theories to explain such coincidences.  There is the Preserver’s Theory, in which humanoid forms were seeded throughout the galaxy by an ancient race; there is also the theory of Parallel Evolution, which—”  
  
“Tell me about your telepathy,” McCoy said suddenly.  
  
Spock’s mouth snapped shut.  He looked warily at McCoy.  McCoy looked back at him, eyes steady.  
  
“I know you have it,” McCoy said.  “You know I do.  You used it on me.”  
  
Spock flinched a little.  “I apologize,” he said.  “I was in great need at the time.  Under ordinary circumstances I would not have done so.”  
  
“Why?  It’s what started the plan to get you out.”  
  
“To access another’s consciousness without permission is one of the worst crimes a Vulcan can commit,” said Spock.  He looked stone-faced at the wall.  “I merely— projected, my mental state at you.  Such accidents are more accepted, but still a violation.”  
  
“Like falling over and accidentally grabbing a handful?”  
  
“A handful of what?” Spock asked, mystified.  
  
McCoy squinted at him, as if he could not quite determine if Spock was being serious or not.  “Never mind,” he said.  “Anyway, you can read minds?  Can you read my mind?”  
  
Spock sighed reluctantly.  “A mindmeld takes a great deal of training in order to perform.”  
  
“But you are trained, right?”  
  
“Vulcans are touch telepaths,” said Spock.  “I cannot read your mind.”  
  
“If you were touching me, could you?”  
  
“I would not.”  
  
“I didn’t ask if you would, I asked if you could.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Spock said.  
  
McCoy sat leaned back into his chair, looking Spock up and down with new interest.  “Creepy,” he said finally.  
  
Spock might have forgone any attempts at remaining civil in the face of McCoy’s incessant probing, had the door not swung open, revealing Sulu.  McCoy quickly stood.  “What is it?” he demanded.  
  
Sulu smiled.  “Coast Guard’s gone,” he told them.  “Uhura ran them off.  She says it’s okay to come up on deck if you like.”  
  
McCoy blew air out between his teeth, “I would like,” he agreed.  “Being so closed in makes me queasy.  You coming, Spock?”  
  
Spock stayed where he was, though he shifted lightly from foot to foot.  “Negative,” he replied.  “I am in need of rest and meditation.”  
  
“Suite yourself,” said McCoy.  He turned to follow Sulu back outside, then snapped his fingers and turned back to Spock.  “When you want to eat, there’s food in the galley.  I know they weren’t feeding you too well.”  
  
Spock nodded.  McCoy and Sulu left, sliding the door gently behind them.  
  
Now it was just Jim, who had begun to lightly snore.  Spock stood still for a moment, considering his options.  He needed to meditate, and to sleep.  He also was in sore need of a healing trance, but he was not sure that he trusted anyone on board the ship enough to wake him when the time came.  Perhaps Jim . . . Spock resolved to see if he was amenable later.  Spock nodded to himself.  He would sleep until his body was no longer tired, and then meditate until his mind was equally rested.  After that, he would perhaps eat, and then see about attempting a healing trance for his arm.  
  
With some amount of difficulty, Spock managed to maneuver himself onto the middle bunk.  He stretched out, his head hitting a surprisingly soft pillow.  Noticing that he was cold, he burrowed under the blanket.  After a moment of consideration, he reached up and dragged the blanket from the top bunk onto himself as well.  He closed his eyes.  
  
Spock came to with an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia.  He shuddered, shoving the memory of his cell, and other, darker things, down, down, down.  He tried to concentrate on the movement of the cargo ship, but it was faint, and the thought of water made his stomach clench.  He heard someone pacing outside the room.  His muscles tightened.  Despite his efforts, his heart thundered.  Would they enter?  Would they take him somewhere?  Would they—  
  
No.  He was being irrational.  Spock forced himself to take a deep breath, and another.  He was no longer in the cell.  They could not hurt him here.  This too, would pass.  
  
He closed his eyes again.  Below him, he could hear the sounds of Jim’s faint snores.  The sound was . . . pleasing.  It evoked memories of desert heat, the welcome shade of a tent, the human constellations, and a lone bird’s call across a plain of brown and red.  
  
Spock’s heartbeat slowed back to its normal rate.  He slept.  
  
When he awoke again, ten point two hours later, Jim was gone.  
  
After meditating for a further seven point two hours, Spock felt almost one hundred percent functional.  Except for the arm.  Ravenous, he ambled out of the room and the one that ensconced it, down the narrow hallway of this ship, attempting to find the galley.  
  
“Excuse me,” he said to a man hurrying past his door in the opposite direction.  The man looked up, his black eyes widening as they took in Spock’s clearly inhuman features.  Spock resisted the urge to swear at having left his hat on the bunk, and then attributed the fact that he even felt the desire to do so, on his still-not-quite-one-hundred-percent recovery.  Also, he did not appreciate being stared at.  
  
“Y- yes, sir?”  
  
“I am looking for the galley,” Spock said, impatient.   
  
The man swallowed, pointing in the direction Spock was headed.  “Down the stairs there.  One deck down.”  
  
“Thank you,” Spock said, mostly because his mother had drilled into him the proper way to handle the human need for politeness.  He had questioned the logic for it at the time, but now its uses seemed more apparent.  
  
“Uh, you’re welcome,” the human replied, looking a bit wild around the eyes.  Spock gave him an abrupt nod, and headed down the staircase he had been pointed towards.  
  
The galley was very narrow.  Spock stood in the center of it, unsure.  Ought he to open cupboards?  Or would he accidentally consume something taboo?  His compass and bag of Vulcan friendly nutrient bars were long gone.  His captors had miraculously managed to avoid poisoning him, but Spock was not entirely certain he could manage the same.  
  
“Here,” said a voice.  
  
Spock glanced up from his perusal to see Uhura standing next to the door.  She tossed a red, round something at him.  Spock caught it and looked at her, head cocked in question.  
  
“It’s an apple,” she said.  “A fruit.  You can probably eat it.  If you’re worried though, I can go hunt down its chemical composition for you.  We’ve got a chart somewhere.”  
  
“I can eat it . . . in its entirety?” Spock asked slowly, eyeing the apple and turning it in his hands so that the shiny red skin caught the light.  
  
“Well, all but the stem and the core,” she said.  “Oh, and the seeds.  Don’t eat them, they’ve got bits of cyanide in them.”  
  
Spock considered the fruit in his hand, then brought it to his mouth to take a bite.  His mother had been perfectly capable of digesting most Vulcan foods.  It therefore stood to reason that Spock would be able to consume the foodstuffs from her home planet.  
  
“Good?” asked Uhura.  
  
“It seems to satisfy all the necessary nutritional requirements,” Spock said.  The fruit had a distinct sweetness to it and a slight tangy aftertaste.  It crunched satisfyingly between his teeth.  
  
“I will take that as a yes,” said Uhura.  “Let’s see if we can't find you something a bit more substantial too.”  
  
“I do not eat of the flesh,” said Spock.  
  
Uhura blinked at him.  “Okay,” she said with a slight smile.  “I’ll remember that.  What about vegan cheese?”  
  
It turned out that cheese was not to Spock’s tastes.  He did not approve of the squeaky sensation between his teeth, nor the faint, sour aftertaste.  Peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth and made his tongue difficult to maneuver, but he deemed the experience unique.  A pasta with tomato sauce (“What is a tomato?” “It’s a fruit.”) was well received, but a cold can of lima beans was less so.  
  
After about thirty minutes of Uhura banging round the galley and shoving various foodstuffs at Spock to try, she and Spock settled with the somewhat unique combination of pasta with sauce, a sweet potato, a bushel of raw kale, and a dollop of peanut butter in a bowl.  
  
They sat down together at a small table that folded out from the wall.  
  
“If I may ask a personal query,” Spock said, studying her profile.  Her hair had been released from a previous multitude of braids, and was now tied behind her in a single ponytail.  She had a smudge of dirt on one cheek.  
  
Uhura drew a spoon out of her mouth.  “Go ahead,” she said, dropping the spoon into her now empty bowl of ice cream.  
  
Spock paused for a moment.  “I apologize in advance if I offend you,” he said.  “It is not my intention.”  
  
She chuckled.  “Relax, Spock,” she said.  “Not all humans are like McCoy.”  
  
“I was not thinking of McCoy,” Spock said.  
  
She sobered, “Jim will forgive you,” she said, voice quiet.  “Trust me, if he cared about you enough to risk his life?  He’ll get over your— you know,” she gestured toward Spock’s ears.  “Little surprise.”  
  
“Delicately put,” Spock said dryly.  He placed his eating utensil onto his plate.  “Ms. Uhura—” he started.  
  
“You can call me Nyota,” she interrupted.  “Please.”  
  
“Nyota,” Spock repeated.  Then, “You and your . . “ he floundered for the proper term, “. . . compatriots,” he settled on, “appear to be rather blasé about accepting an alien into your midst.  I must confess, I would not have expected such behavior from a race that has yet to make official first contact with any alien species.”  
  
Her gaze sharpened.  “ _Official_ , first contact?”  
  
“Our meeting does not count as an official first contact situation,” Spock said, “as neither your planet nor mine officially recognize or endorse it.”  
  
“I see,” she said.  She took a swig of water and leaned back, crossing her legs.  “Well, McCoy did have to shout at us for a day or so to even get us to believe what he was saying.  But after that?  Remember Spock, we’ve had a good couple of weeks to get used to the idea.”  
  
“That is a relatively short amount of time.”  
  
She shrugged.  “I don’t know how much you know about us, but humans are pretty much consistently good at two things.”  She held up a hand with two fingers.  “One, adapting to weird situations.”  She put a finger down, “And two, destruction.”  She put the other finger down and smiled somewhat grimly.  
  
Spock felt a slight chill run up his spine.  He blamed it on the draft from the open door to the galley.  “A fascinating interpretation,” he said after a moment to collect his wits.  
  
She shrugged.  “We call it human nature.  McCoy could give you days of lecture on the subject.”  
  
Spock envisioned that scenario.  “I will decline,” he said, taking another bite of pasta.  
  
Uhura laughed.  “I’ll be sure to tell him you said so,” she promised.  
  
As the days aboard ship passed, Spock began to come to the conclusion that Jim was avoiding him.  It was both somewhat alarming and impressive that he managed to accomplish this for such an extended amount of time in such a small space.  After all, Spock could now recall every single crewmember’s name and face, so why else would it be so difficult to hold a conversation with the one he was supposed to know best?  
  
Not that Spock had spent all of his time searching Jim out.  After spending a morning on the top deck, stoically gawking at the massive expanse of water making up the Pacific Ocean, he put his attention to other, more important matters.  
  
He questioned the crew, falling only a bit short of all out interrogation, and was rewarded with the information that they were aboard a container ship (which Spock had assumed to be obvious) headed for port in Mombasa which, as Chekov and a map informed him, was a city on the east coast of the African continent.  Spock had already learned that the ship itself belonged to Uhura’s family, and so it was with little surprise that he found that it was part of a fleet of ships operated by Uhura Enterprises, based out of United East Africa.  
  
He was a little perplexed at the machinations that Uhura must have undergone in order to remain both in her family’s good graces, as well as operate as a seemingly high ranked member of the Resistance.  
  
“Oh, my father knows,” Uhura told him over an evening meal.  (Spock had spied Jim slinking out of the galley just as the noisy crew entered it and had attempted to catch him, but Uhura cornered him first.  Spock was beginning to suspect her of enablement).  She made a face.  “He thinks it’s just a phase I’m going through, something I’ll get bored of, or grow out of.  But he doesn’t really care as long as I don’t embarrass the family.”  
  
“Your family is very influential?”  
  
“Extremely,” Uhura said, without a trace of self-consciousness.  She wiped her mouth with a napkin.  “It’s been a good way to get Resistance members from place to place without drawing too much attention.  Uhura Enterprises is everywhere.”  
  
“Is your behavior not somewhat . . . un-filial?” Spock asked tentatively.  
  
Uhura looked away.  “This is more important.  United East Africa is one of only two countries in the world still run by elected officials.  We’ve got our corruption of course, but it’s nothing compared to other places, and the Resistance isn’t technically illegal there, so we do all right.”  
  
“In Russo-China, it has been labeled a terrorist organization,” Chekov told him with a peculiar combination of trepidation and pride mixed into his voice.  
  
“Interesting,” said Spock, who was beginning to truly understand his mother’s reasoning for never desiring to return to her home planet.  
  
“Not really,” said McCoy, walking up behind them.  “Pretty standard.”  
  
“What will happen in Mombasa?” queried Spock.  What he really wanted to ask about was his ostensible role in this planet’s conflicts, and then deny that he had any responsibility to them but, despite being related to Sybok, he was, in fact, capable of subtlety.  
  
“Not much,” said Uhura.  “We’re just going to dock, head over to the company airfield, then fly to our headquarters.”  
  
“And they are not in Mombasa,” guessed Spock.  
  
Uhura looked a bit scandalized.  “Of course not.  That would be like inviting a war.  United East Africa’s neutral, but not that neutral.  Headquarters are in Scotland.”  
  
“Your organization is indeed very international,” said Spock.  
  
Uhura shot him a look, as if not quite sure if he were teasing her or not.  Spock, whose father’s lack of a sense of humor enjoyed quite a bit of fame in the circles of Vulcan that did not attend religiously to Surak’s ways, waited patiently.  
  
“I guess you could say that,” she said finally.  
  
Spock inclined his head.  
  
Three days after he had first been brought aboard the ship, Spock concocted a plan to speak to Jim.  He might have come up with it sooner, but he spent the better part of two days arguing with himself about why he should even expend the energy to do so, which thus delayed his eventual action.  
  
The side of him that had been raised steeped in Vulcan culture, balked at reforging any emotional attachment he might have had to the human.  During their time together in the desert, Spock had veered between halfway detesting Jim for his blatant emotionalism, to finding him one of the most fascinating beings he had yet to encounter.  As much as he might wish to have the control of a Kolinahr master, he knew his human half made him particularly susceptible to leaps of illogic, especially when it came to connecting with others.  (Sybok’s choices indicated that a pure Vulcan might not be immune to such failures either, but Spock preferred to ignore that little tidbit of reality).  Was reconnecting with Jim even the correct action to take?  
  
Jim Kirk was a problem.  He did not behave as a Vulcan ought.  (Of course not, he was human).  His anger was quick, but faded just has quickly (except now).  He had forgiven Spock’s transgressions before (so why not now?).  He had saved Spock’s life to the detriment of his own societal standing (Spock had saved his).  He was curious and outgoing and surprisingly intelligent.  
  
They had passed the nights speaking together of the stars, and Jim had named him friend, knowing neither his background nor his family.  
  
The modern Vulcan concept of friendship was a muddled one.  Acquaintances and family were acceptable.  Necessary.  All ties were deemed second to following the path of logic, yet a Vulcan could not simply forgo companionship for fear of it being detrimental to their mental health.  A telepathic mind _needed_ other minds like air to breath, like water to drink.  
  
Did that not, therefore, make it acceptable – no, biologically necessary even – for Spock to reach out to Jim?  To ask his forgiveness?  
  
In the days before Surak of course, there had been many degrees of friendship.  Family, lover, enemy.  But Spock had been taught that the way towards a true life as a Vulcan was one of detachment, had he not?  A Vulcan had no need for forgiveness, for following logic did not require an excuse.  
  
His father had married his mother, an illegal alien.  They had conceived a halfbreed son.  His very existence was not, perhaps, logical.  Spock had considered this conundrum many times before and had always wondered whether his father had suffered a tremendous lack of logic for a five-year period, or if instead he had been following some other, higher path.  
  
Spock massaged his temples.  
  
Here were the facts:  
  
One:  Spock had saved Jim’s life.  
  
Two:  Spock had found Jim’s company intellectually stimulating.  
  
Three:  Jim had forged an emotional attachment to Spock.  By not breaking it, Spock had thus reciprocated.  
  
Four:  Jim had rescued Spock, after which he had discovered Spock’s Vulcan heritage, which appeared to upset him.  
  
Five:  Spock was unsure if Jim’s upset was due to his not being told, or due to xenophobic tendencies.  The rest of the humans appeared to believe the first option.  Spock was not so sure.  
  
Six:  Spock’s desire to reconcile with Jim was probably based in emotion, not logic.  
  
Seven:  His father would likely detest every item on this list.  
  
And eight:  Spock did not want to spend the remainder of his time on Sol III attempting to purge any guilt he might feel (theoretically) at deceiving Jim.  
  
The logical response to item number eight was therefore to locate Jim, and to elucidate the situation.  Done.  Spock’s head immediately felt much clearer.  He began to plot.  
  
Spock’s plan for confronting Jim was embarrassingly simple.  They were at sea.  The container ship was not overly large, and Jim had to sleep in their shared room sometime.  So Spock made himself scarce, in the hopes that Jim would come to trust in the room being empty during the daylight hours.  
  
It took two more days, plus choppy water, for Spock’s plan to come to fruition.  
  
Spock entered the room and noticed to his satisfaction that Jim was present.  In fact, the object of Spock’s interest sat on the lower bunk, reading through a paper book.  His eyes flickered up to Spock, then back down.  He turned the page.  
  
Spock was used to being ignored by his peers, but somehow in the desert he had become accustomed to Jim’s attention.  Being ignored was . . . uncomfortable.  It was peculiar that such a brief habit had managed to reassert itself after a month of separation, but Spock put that issue aside for another night’s meditation.  
  
Spock clasped his hands behind his back and stood at attention.  “Jim,” he said.  
  
Jim did not look up.  
  
Spock squared his shoulders.  “Jim, please.”  ( _Please_.  Vulcans did not frequently use such words.  They smacked of emotion.  Of desperation.  But Jim would not be aware of the connotation).  
  
“Look, Spock,” Jim said finally, eyes still fixed on his book.  “If you’re just coming here to assuage any misplaced guilt, then go away.  I thought that emotional shit was illogical.”  
  
“You eavesdropped on my conversation with Dr. McCoy?” Spock said, surprised but not entirely.  
  
Jim shrugged, his face as Vulcan blank as they came.  
  
Spock exhaled, looking at him.  He left.  
  
He returned, zero point four five minutes later.  
  
“I apologize,” Spock said abruptly, hands clasped behind his back, face severe.  
  
“What?” Jim, caught off guard, nearly dropped his book.  
  
“That is the correct colloquialism, is it not?” Spock insisted.  “Now will we no longer be at odds?”  
  
Jim stared at him.  “I can’t believe you,” he said.  “You seriously think that a little apology makes up for lying to me all that time?  What planet are you from?”  
  
“Vulcan,” Spock replied.  
  
Jim made a noise of frustration.  “That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“I do not understand,” Spock said, a note of frustration creeping into his voice.  “Why is my apology insufficient?”  
  
With a scowl, Jim put his book aside.  “I don’t know, Spock, why do you think it might be?”  
  
Spock’s eyebrows furrowed, “I do not understand this human penchant for asking me questions I have already stated that I do not know the answer to,” he said.  
  
Jim closed his eyes in disbelief.  “Oh my god you’re serious,” he said to the ceiling.  “I’m stuck on a boat with a socially inept alien.”  
  
“I do not see the need for insults,” Spock bristled, although technically Jim was correct; Spock did not understand the niceties of human society and he was an alien.  
  
“Spock,” Jim said.  “Try using a little empathy, okay?  I trusted you, and it turned out that your whole identity was a lie.  How would you feel?”  
  
“Empathy . . .” Spock trailed off.  “Empathy is a human tool.  Vulcans have no use for it.”  
  
“Oh come on, you as good as told Bones that you have feelings, you just hide them,” Jim snapped.  
  
“Bones?”  
  
“McCoy.”  Jim waved the question away.  “But you know what I mean.”  
  
“You misunderstand me,” Spock said, willing his voice to remain calm.  “Telepathy negates the need for empathy.  Vulcans do not guess at what another Vulcan might –” his voice jerked, “— feel.” Jim raised an eyebrow at him pointedly.  Spock hurried on.  “If logic is not sufficient to understand a fellow being’s motivation, and yet it is still important, then telepathy will suffice to resolve the issue.”  Spock could not meet Jim’s gaze as he added, “With it, two can experience the motivations of one.  Telepathy is much more efficient than empathy.”  
  
Jim was looking at him intently.  “Then use that,” he said after a moment of silence, voice clipped.  
  
“Pardon?”  Spock was honestly taken aback.  
  
Jim narrowed his eyes.  “What,” he challenged.  “Can’t you use it on a human?”  
  
“I—” Spock said.  He pursed his lips.  “Do you understand what it is you ask of me?”  
  
“Do you?” Jim shot back.  
  
“Telepathy is more efficient than empathy,” Spock ground out.  “It is also a great deal more intimate.  Do you not understand?”  
  
“Your point is?”  
  
“You are not afraid?”  
  
“No,” Jim said.  His eyes glittered a cold blue in his pale face.  
  
Spock took one final step and his knees knocked against Jim’s.  He lifted his hand to Jim’s face, and rested his fingertips against the meld points.  
  
“Do it,” said Jim.  
  
And Spock was helpless to resist.  “My mind to your mind,” he said.  “My thoughts to your thoughts.”  
  
Anger.  That was the first emotion that came through bright and clear.  But Spock already knew about that one, so he dove deeper into Jim’s psyche, into his memories of Spock.  To his surprise, hurt was next.  Betrayal.  But there was no sense of fear.  Jim had spoken the truth then – he was not afraid of Spock.  Fascinating.  Spock concentrated.  The meld was more difficult to maintain than those with his family, but he supposed this might be attributed to Jim’s alien nature.  
  
Spock caught a flash of loss.  Protectiveness, maybe?  Guilt?  He made to investigate (what was that dark corner?) but the next thing he knew, he had been shoved back, his fingers disconnecting from Jim’s face, the meld broken.  
  
Jim was gasping, sweat beading his brow, staring at Spock as if he had never seen him before.  Spock himself was not in much better shape.  His legs felt wobbly, his breath rapid.  
  
“Your mind is . . . very dynamic,” Spock offered up eventually, into the harshness of their breathing.  
  
“Um,” Jim said.  “Thanks.  I think.”  He swallowed.  
  
“I apologize if I have unnerved you,” Spock said, which was not what he had meant to say at all.  
  
“No, no.” Jim said faintly.  “I did ask.  Just— just give me a sec.  That was . . . kind of intense.”  
  
In the aftermath of the meld, Spock had fallen onto his backside.  He lurched to his feet.  
  
“You got your arm fixed,” Jim observed, still rubbing the sides of his head, as if to erase all traces of Spock that had been there.  
  
Spock looked at the limb in question.  “Yes,” he replied.  “Dr. McCoy was willing to assist me in a healing trance.”  
  
“A what now?” Jim said.  He had stopped rubbing, and now looked at Spock with something of their old camaraderie in his gaze.  
  
Spock hesitated.  “It is a state of deep meditation.  One trained in the technique can utilize it to speed up the healing process of their own body.  Its application leaves me vulnerable however, which is why I did not enter it earlier.”  
  
“Oh.”  Jim scuffed his feet.  Looked down at his knees.  “What did you need McCoy for?”  
  
“To awaken me from it when the time came,” Spock answered vaguely.  
  
“Oh,” Jim said again.  Spock could sense that he was thinking.  “I could have done that for you.”  
  
Spock faltered for a second.  “I did not wish to disturb you,” he said.  
  
Finally, _finally_ , Jim turned to look at him.  His gaze was steadier this time, as if the anger at Spock had been leeched out of his form by the intimacy of the meld.  
  
“Really?”  
  
This was his moment, Spock realized.  “You were angry with me,” he said.  “I did not wish to antagonize you further.”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
“I am sorry,” Spock said to him.  Jim would likely never understand the cultural significance of such an admission, but Spock found himself uncaring.  “I was apprehensive about your reaction to my identity, and I withheld it from you longer than logic, and the parameters of my mission, dictated.  I did not intended to betray your . . .” and here Spock stopped.  What was he to say?  Jim’s friendship?  Such was not the Vulcan way.  
  
“My what, Spock?” Jim said softly.  He smoothed the bedcover with one hand, the other resting in his lap.  The ceiling light shone burnished gold onto his bowed head.  
  
Spock shook himself.  “I did not intend to betray your regard,” he finished quietly.  “I am told you sacrificed much for my sake.  I should not have dishonored it.”  
  
“They told you about the house and stuff, huh?” Jim cracked a small smile.  
  
“Among other things,” Spock said.  
  
Jim clapped him on the shoulder.  Spock twitched at the contact, then reminded himself that, as they had just shared a much more intimate mental connection, such a reaction was not really necessary.  
  
“These guys are kind of nosy bunch,” Jim said.  “They probably know all about our life histories by now.”  
  
“I should hope not,” said Spock, a little scandalized at what that would entail.  
  
Jim snorted, then chuckled a little.  
  
“I do not understand your source of amusement,” said Spock.  
  
“Just you,” Jim smiled, with a precision that Spock found completely dissatisfactory.  
  
“You found my words amusing,” Spock said uncertainly.  
  
“Among other things,” Jim parroted back at him.  
  
Spock’s eyebrow shot up.  “You are mocking me.”  
  
“No, Spock,” Jim said.  He slung an arm around Spock’s shoulder.  Spock blanched a little at the closeness of him.  “Teasing.  I’m teasing you.  It’s what human friends do.”  
  
Spock pondered this.  “So you are no longer angry with me,” he concluded, still a bit unsure.  
  
Jim tilted his head.  “Yeah,” he sighed.  “Don’t take offense, but you’re kind of hard to stay angry with when you’re being all clueless and sincere.”  He winced.  “I’m not really sure what that says about me as a person,” he added.  
  
“That is satisfactory,” Spock said, resigning himself to Jim’s grip on him and intending to ignore Jim’s summation of his character with the full force of his Vulcan intellect.  
  
“Great,” said Jim.  “Let’s go get snacks to celebrate.  I won’t tell anyone if you eat all the peanut butter out of the jar.”


	10. Soar with the Wind V

**Soar with the Wind V**  
  
Spock found the remainder of their journey at sea a satisfactory one.  Now in accord with Jim, the two spent the majority of their time together.  Spock educated his companion on the basics of Vulcan culture, while Jim taught him how to cook Earth food, and to cheat at a game he called ‘poker.’  When they grew tired of these endeavors, they devoted their time to baiting McCoy, who was only too willing to be drawn into an argument.  
  
Once, Jim woke during Spock’s – now very familiar – feelings of claustrophobia and fear in the night.  
  
“You can talk about it,” he said, so quietly that at first Spock thought he must have hallucinated it.  
  
“I did not know you were awake,” said Spock.  
  
Jim was quiet for a moment.  “Bad things happen,” he murmured.  “I know.  I’m sorry they happened to you.”  
  
“I am . . . gratified,” Spock said, a strange lump in his throat.  The irrational fear had receded somewhat for the moment, now that his attention was drawn to something else.   But it was not completely gone.  Spock was beginning to wonder if it would ever be completely gone.  
  
Jim made a humming noise.  “If you need something, let me know, okay?  I mean,” he drew in a breath, “I mean, I know it’s not going to get magically all better but if I can— help, in any way.  Make things easier for you.  Let me know, okay?”  
  
Spock exhaled.  “Vulcans process,” he hesitated.  “That is— we utilize meditation as a tool to process— events.”  
  
Jim turned over, blankets rustling, bed creaking.  “You just do what you need to do,” he said.  “But if you, you know, need someone, tell me, okay?”  
  
“That is not the Vulcan way,” said Spock.  
  
“Maybe it should be,” said Jim.  
  
“Jim . . .”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
Spock surrendered.  “As you wish,” he grumbled.  But inside, a small warmth flared.  
  
On their twelfth day at sea, Spock was treated to his first, fleeting sight of the African coast.  They docked in Mombasa, and tried their best not to look suspicious as Uhura hurried them into a car and out to an airfield.  Spock decided he did not want to know how she avoided the requisite authorities.  He suspected a large sum of money must have exchanged hands at some point.  
  
“We’re not even going to stay one night?” Jim whined, looking outside the car window as the city zipped by.  “I thought you said we were.”  
  
“Don’t be an infant,” McCoy groused.  He turned to Spock, and helped him adjust his bandana over his ears and eyebrows.  Spock resisted the urge to bat his hands away.  At least this climate was tolerably warm, even if the resulting, yet necessary, headgear for a Vulcan in disguise looked foolish.  “I think people would notice a fugitive and an alien walking on the street.  At least in Scotland, this guy wearing a hat’s not going to look funny.”  
  
“I’m not a fugitive here,” Jim pointed out, peering longingly at a line of palm trees and the light sparkling off the blue of the bay.  
  
McCoy rolled his eyes.  “The Bureau’s got a long arm, Jim.  Do you really want to play with figuring out just how long it is?”  
  
“I might,” Jim said.  “If it’d get me a few hours on the beach and a piña colada.”  
  
“Well, I don’t,” said Uhura from the front seat.  “We’re getting on a plane in five hours.  Sorry.”  
  
“What makes Scotland any more safer than anywhere else we’ve been?” Jim demanded.  He thumped his head against the glass window of the car.  “The E.U.’s not exactly buddy-buddy with the Bureau, but they’re still run by the same kind of assholes.”  
  
Uhura smiled a very faint smile, but Spock could have sworn there was a new sparkle in her eye.  “It’s because Scott’s there,” she said.  
  
“Of course there are Scotts there, it’s Scotland,” Jim replied, picking at the leather seat of the car.  Spock gave him a look of rebuke.  Jim put his hands back into his lap.  
  
Uhura ran her hands through her hair.  “Not Scotts, plural,” she said, looking like Jim’s denseness was about to hit her last nerve.  “Montgomery Scott.  Anywhere he sets up shop is the safest place on Earth, period.”  
  
“Okay,” Jim waved his hands a bit.  “Why?  What’s he do?”  
  
“He’s an engineer.”  
  
“Fascinating,” said Spock.  
  
Jim slapped his hand to his forehead.  “What, seriously?  An engineer?”  
  
Uhura glared at him a little.  “Trust me,” she said, turning her back on him to face front.  “He’s the best.”  
  
“You know, I was kind of hoping you were going to say he was like, an ex secret agent or something.  Or an insanely rich businessman who no one could blackmail or threaten.”  
  
“Just trust me, Kirk,” said Uhura with a sigh.  “Scotty’s got us covered.  He’s a miracle worker.”  
  
Jim sighed again, gave the outside view one more forlorn look, then set to fixing the mistakes McCoy had made with Spock’s bandana.  
  
“I don’t think red’s really your color,” Jim mused, as he tugged to keep the cloth over Spock’s ears and eyebrows.  
  
“No?”  Spock kept his hands clenched around his pants legs, submitting to Jim’s adjustments as best he could.  Why must humans be so tactile?  His mother had not been so.  
  
“Nah, I think you’d look better in blue,” Jim said.  “Set off your eyes a bit.”  
  
“My eyes are brown,” replied Spock.  “Yours are blue. Therefore, should blue not be your color?”  
  
Jim shrugged.  
  
McCoy turned around to gaze incredulously at the pair of them.  Spock lifted an eyebrow at him.  
  
“Yes, Doctor?”  
  
 McCoy blinked and shook his head.  “Nothing,” he said.  “I just thought for a sec you— never mind.”  
  
“What?” asked Jim.  He tugged at Spock’s bandana again.  “What did you think?”  
  
“Never mind,” said McCoy, more firmly this time.  
  
“Aw, come on, Bones,” Jim said.  
  
“Do you really have to keep using that name?” McCoy asked wearily, covering his eyes as if to ward off a headache.  “It’s terrible.  People are going to think I’m a crazy who puts together skeletons from owl pellets for fun or something.”  
  
“Wow, Bones, that’s a really specific thing for someone to think,” Jim said.  
  
McCoy crossed his arms.  “Sulu asked me if I knew anything about owl pellets yesterday,” he muttered.  “It’s all your fault.”  
  
“Oh, sorry,” Jim said, not sounding sorry at all.  
  
McCoy jabbed a finger at him.  “Just for that, I’m going to inject you with influenza in your sleep.”  
  
“You already gave me the vaccine for that,” said Jim.  
  
“The ethics of your medical professionals seem somewhat lacking,” Spock observed to Jim.  
  
McCoy choked a little.  “My ethics?  Do we really want to play this game, Mr. I’m-here-to-secretly-spy-on-a-whole-plan

et?”

“If Earth were capable of contacting the Vulcan High Command, then my presence here would not be a secret,” Spock said reasonably.

McCoy sputtered.

Jim winked at Spock.  “Let it alone.  Let him keep his delusions for a bit longer.”

“I can modify that influenza so it affects aliens too,” McCoy threatened.  “I didn’t take those samples of your blood for nothing.”

“Boys!” Uhura turned around.  “Come on, you’re distracting the driver.”

“It’s like she’s my mother,” Jim mused to the roof of the car.  “Like my mom, and also like the middle school principal.”

“What is a middle school?” queried Spock.

“Hell,” McCoy replied, while at the same time Jim said,

“Torture.”

Spock furrowed his eyebrows.  “I do not understand,” he admitted.

McCoy and Jim shared a glance.  “Do Vulcans go through puberty?” Jim asked finally.

“Oh my god,” said Uhura.  “You’re really going there.”

“Of a sort,” Spock said.  “You refer to the period between childhood and adult maturation, correct?”

“Erm, yes,” said Jim after a few seconds.

“What Jim here is trying to say is that human puberty is the most awkward and uncomfortable stage of a human’s life,” McCoy interrupted.  “Middle school is where we put all those awkward and uncomfortable humans until they can be released into the wild.”

“It’s basically like a holding cell,” Jim interjected.  He made a face.   “Well, maybe not quite, but yeah.  A holding cell.  To keep them from contaminating the rest of humanity.”

“Humans practice ritual segregation of their young?” Spock said, horrified.  “Is that not a primary time for brain development?”  No wonder Sol III had suffered so.

Uhura turned around again.  “Guys, you’re giving him the completely wrong idea,” she scolded.  “Spock, Middle School refers to one’s educational level.  Of course there are going to be hoards of pubescent children – it’s a school.  But they’re not separated from society.”

“They should be,” McCoy said under his breath.

“I see,” Spock said, silently relieved and also slightly ashamed of his gullibility.  Human society was just so peculiar.  It seemed nearly impossible to sort the facts from the wildly inaccurate conjectures.

“So – and this is from a purely medical standpoint, I assure you – what’s Vulcan puberty like?”

Spock was suddenly tongue-tied.

Jim, who had not asked the question but appeared to appreciate it nonetheless, beamed at McCoy, who awaited Spock’s answer, an expectant look written all over his face.

“Well,” said Spock, trying very hard not to think of the terrifying end result of male Vulcan puberty.  “The mind and body undergo many . . .” he cleared his throat.  “Ah, many hormonal changes.  A Vulcan female will develop mammary glands, while a Vulcan male—”

“Yeah, he definitely just said mammary glands,” Jim announced to the car at large as McCoy snorted with laughter.

“I do not see how different that is from human puberty.”  Spock glared a bit at Jim.  “Surely Nyota developed her mammary glands during— I do not understand why you are laughing, Jim.”

McCoy made an odd choking noise.  Uhura, whose eyes had widened at Spock’s words, now reached towards the back seat of the car to casually punch McCoy in the arm.

“That’s what you get for encouraging him.”

“Ow!” he said, rubbing it, but could not seem to stop small hiccups of laughter from escaping.

“Spock, you are the best,” Jim told him, still snickering.  “Never let anyone tell you different, okay?”

“Have I errored?” Spock asked Uhura, who at the moment seemed to be the sanest of the bunch, although Spock could tell that she too, was fighting hard not to laugh.

“We’ll have to explain some other time,” Uhura said, as McCoy began to wheeze.  “For god’s sake McCoy, control yourself.”

“Can’t,” McCoy gasped.  “Oh god, I haven’t laughed this hard in ages.”

“I am gratified to have been the source of your amusement,” said Spock darkly.

Jim patted him on the shoulder.  Spock accepted it, mostly because he was squished between Jim and McCoy and had nowhere to escape.

“Us too,” he smiled.  Then frowned.  “Damn it, Spock, your bandana’s slipped down again.  We're going to have to glue it to your face or something.”

“Please do not,” Spock said, feeling a completely logical spike of alarm.

“Hold still,” ordered Jim.  He fidgeted with it some more.

“It’s fine, Jim,” McCoy said.  “Quit fussing with it.  We’re getting to the airfield soon anyway, right?”

“About two minutes,” said Uhura.

“I’m not fussing.”

“Okay fine, then stop pawing at Spock.  He’s going to think all humans are like you, god forbid.”

“I think I was just insulted,” Jim said to Spock.

“Potentially,” Spock agreed.

“That’s harsh, isn’t it?”

“Cry me a river,” said McCoy.

Spock turned to him.  “I believe that is physically impossible, Doctor.”  He blinked, suddenly uncertain.  “Unless there are certain aspects of human physiology which I have so far been made unaware?  I do not think so . . . Jim, why are you laughing again?”

“Oh, thank god we’re here,” said Uhura in an obvious tone of relief.  “I’m never riding in a car with you lunatics again ever,” she added, as Jim’s choked sniggers turned into general hysterics.

“You need an access code to even get into this place?” McCoy asked, as Uhura fished something out of her pocket and flashed it to the guard at the gate.

She shrugged.  “It’s a private airfield,” she said.  “So, yeah.  Why not?”

“Are we going to be flying in a cargo plane?”  McCoy said, the idea suddenly occurring to him.  “I don’t want to fly with livestock.  They smell.”

Uhura gave him a look of disdain.  “Of course not,” she said.  “We’re taking the jet.”  The car stopped and she hopped out, waving to someone waiting outside the hangar.

“Oh,” McCoy said weakly, staring after her.  “I see.  We’re just taking the jet.  Right.”

“I bet I could fly the jet,” Jim said.

“It seems pertinent to mention that the last time you flew an aircraft, it crashed into a mountainside,” said Spock.

“Oh come on, the nav. system and the engine were— oh my god,” he stopped.  “Did you just make a joke at my expense?”

“Vulcans do not joke.”

“I think that’s a yes,” said Jim, peering at Spock.  “Careful, keep it up and you might start showing your emotions.”

“There is no cause for insults,” Spock huffed, sliding himself out of the car after Jim.  He trailed McCoy and Jim to the hangar, where Uhura was already talking animatedly with someone at the entrance.  Behind them, Spock heard the sounds of another couple of cars pulling out, and the familiar voices of Hikaru Sulu and Pavel Chekov as they too, piled out.

“And maybe it is in Southern Russia where everyone speaks Chinese,” Chekov was saying, “But in Moscow it is still Russian.  My Mandarin is the worst.”

“Guess it’s lucky for you that math is universal then, isn’t it?” Sulu replied.

Chekov crinkled a grin at him, “Da, very lucky.”  He spotted Spock ahead of them and called out, “Please Mr. Spock, we need you to settle a question for us.”

Spock halted, letting McCoy and Jim disappear into the hangar, and allowing Sulu and Chekov catch up to him.  They were both perspiring, Spock noticed.

“How may I be of assistance?” he asked politely.

“Mr. Spock, you are not hot?” Chekov panted as they reached him.  “Why, he is as cool as a zucchini!”

“Cucumber,” said Sulu.

Chekov turned a bit redder, “Cucumber,” he repeated.  “Yes, I see there is alliteration there.  That makes sense.”

“You had a question?” Spock said, patiently.

Chekov blinked.  “Ah, yes,” he exclaimed.  “Hikaru and I were wondering what it is you do on . . .” he frowned, “Wulcan?”

“Vulcan,” said Spock.

Chekov nodded.  “Yes, Wulcan.  What is it you do there?  Why is it they sent _you_ here?  Hikaru was thinking that you are perhaps military, or a diplomat.  I told him no, Wulcans sound peaceful and scientific – you are always asking questions Mr. Spock, which is why I think so – so I was thinking that you are maybe a scientist?  An anthropologist or sociologist?”

“You are partially correct,” Spock said.  “I am a scientist.”

Chekov turned to give Sulu, standing beside him with his arms crossed, a look of triumph.

“However, I was trained in the physical sciences, particularly physics, computer science, astronomy, and chemistry,” Spock added.

Sulu stuck his hands into the pockets of his ratty cargo shorts.  He adjusted the sunglasses slipping down his sweaty nose.  “You’re a physicist,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Why on earth would they send a physicist?”

Spock weighed his options.  He could not lie, but neither had he told any of these idealistic young humans the truth about his bloodline.  He decided to prevaricate.  “My father is a well known diplomat,” Spock said.  “I was thus exposed to many different cultures during my youth.  I also had made a study of some human languages, which necessarily included cultural studies.”

Sulu made a face, “My father is a civil engineer, but I doubt I could even build you a model bridge that wouldn’t collapse.  Why would you study human languages?  We’re not even space faring – well, not like you guys.”

“My father emphasized the study of diplomacy beginning at a very young age.”  He looked far away for a moment, then could not help adding, “Of course, my elder brother actively avoided mastering any of it, so perhaps there is some truth in what you say.”

“Maybe,” agreed Sulu.  Chekov, having lost his sunglasses over the side of the container ship, squinted at him, shading his eyes.

“You are a mystery, Mr. Spock,” he declared.  “It that a Wulcan past time?  To be mysterious?”

“No,” said Spock, very firmly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jim, walking up behind them.  He slung a companionable arm around Spock’s shoulders.  Spock went rigid.  So tactile!  Why must he be so tactile?  “I bet it is.  When we were in Death Valley together, did I tell you?”  He leaned over to speak to Sulu and Chekov.  “He spent a whole week wearing the same stupid hat.  Never told me why, refused to talk about it, refused to take it off, even when he slept.”

“You've mentioned,” said Sulu, voice as dry as the dirt around them.

“Of course, I get why now,” Jim continued, motioning towards Spock’s ears.  The end of his finger flicked by the tip of Spock’s ear.  Spock’s cheeks felt hot.  “And also there’s the eyebrows, although I guess you could have shaped those.”

“Yes,” said Chekov, halfway glancing at the entrance to the flight hangar.  “We should probably go to the plane.”

“He wouldn’t even let me watch him set up the tent,” Jim groused, as they started walking.  He slipped his arm off of Spock’s shoulders.  Without it, Spock now felt peculiarly light, as if it had been keeping him grounded.  “I bet it was super high tech or something and you didn’t want me to know,” he said accusingly.

“It was a Vulcan tent,” Spock said.  “Although we attempted to make it resemble its Terran counterparts.”

Jim snapped his fingers.  “I knew it was weird that we didn’t broil alive when we slept there during the day.”

Spock almost-frowned.  “Your tents do not modulate their inside temperature?”

“Not very well,” said Sulu.

“They’re like ovens,” said Jim.

Spock’s eyebrows drew together.  “A design flaw, then.  Thank you for bringing it to my attention.  Why did you never mention this before?”

Jim rolled his eyes.  “Spock, we were trying not to die in the desert.  I kind of had other things to think about besides wonder why the tent wasn’t a death trap.  I was just grateful that I could sleep when the time came.”

“I see,” Spock said, though the slight pursing of his lips and the bit of gleam in his eyes made Jim wonder if he was already planning modifications to his next fake Earth tent.

They walked into the hanger.  Inside was shaded, and about ten degrees cooler than the outside due to the large fans set up around the edges of the room.  Uhura walked towards them.  Her loose jeans were only in slightly better shape than Sulu’s shorts, and the flared out ends billowed a bit in the fans’ breeze.

“Sorry about the heat,” she said.  “Since the hanger’s open-air we can’t have any climate controls but those,” she pointed to the fans.

“Where is the jet?” Chekov asked, wiping sweat off his forehead with his arm.

She jerked her chin towards the opening at the other end of the hanger.  “It’s on the tarmac outside already,” she said.  She pointed at the smaller planes inside.  “These are just getting fixed up.”

Spock examined the airplanes with open interest.  They were dissimilar in shape to Vulcan transports, looking like nothing more than hollow metal tubes, though aerodynamic enough.  He felt a twinge of apprehension at flying in one, which he immediately forced down.

“Don’t worry,” Jim consoled him, “It won’t be like my plane.  Uhura Enterprises has enough money to make sure their planes don’t break down and crash.”

Spock narrowed his eyes.  “You are less than reassuring,” he said.  “Also, I was not worrying.  It is illogical to worry about what may happen.  _Kaiidth_.”

Jim gave him a little half smile.  “Just wanted to make sure,” he said lightly.

The plane was indeed on the tarmac.  After they had boarded, Spock blinked in surprise at the luxuriously appointed inside.  The chairs were wide-backed and cushioned, a deep blue in color.  There were lights and computer screens, and lavatories.  He noticed McCoy make a beeline for a small black receptacle fastened to the floor.  It opened at the press of his palm, and McCoy rummaged through it before emerging triumphant with a small bottle of amber colored liquid.  He wiggled back into his seat, opening it and taking a long gulp.

“It’s like a hotel, Leonard,” said Uhura, who had boarded last and had also spent some time conversing with the pilots.  “You take anything from the mini-fridge, you’re going to have to pay for it later.”

McCoy took another sip, then looked at the bottle in his hand in distrust.  “You had better be joking,” he said, craning his neck to speak to her.

She gave an enigmatic shrug.  “We’ll see,” she said, as the plane started to rumble.  She sat next to a woman with dark hair, who Spock had not yet spoken to, though he knew from his time aboard the ship that her name was Marlena.  Jim, emerging from the lavatory, sat next to Spock, across from McCoy and Sulu.

Despite Spock’s earlier words, he did spend a significant amount of time during the flight postulating just when and how the airplane would fail.  Even a hint of turbulence had him taking a meditative breath and repeating to himself that although humans’ spaceflight capabilities were meager, they had mastered in-atmosphere flight well over three hundred years ago.

Kirk leaned over to whisper in his ear.  “Hey, are you okay?  You look a little pale.”

“This airplane is very primitive in design,” Spock said.

Jim patted his hand reassuringly.  Spock looked down at it, then up at Jim, who smiled, completely unaware of the Vulcan social conventions he was trampling all over.  “Could be worse,” he said, with a jerk of his shoulder toward McCoy.  “Could be in his shoes.”

If Spock was pale, McCoy looked positively green (a color Spock had been assured did not usually occur on humans).  He gripped his bottle in one hand and the armrest with the other, clutching so fiercely at it that his knuckles were white.  His face was beaded with sweat, his eyes closed, and his lips moving soundlessly in some variety of mantra.  Or perhaps it was a prayer.

“I do not believe that the doctor and I wear the same size footwear,” Spock stated.

Jim shook his head, another smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  “Idiom,” he said.  “Means you could be experiencing what he is.”

“Ah,” said Spock.  He snuck another glance at McCoy.  Sulu was holding out a white paper bag to him with an expression of resignation.  McCoy snatched it from his hand, eyes still shut, before returning his hand to its previous place on the armrest.   “I believe my own state of affairs is quite preferable.”

“Hates to fly,” Jim said.  “Told me he was in a plane crash when he was little.”

“Jim, that does not put me at ease,” Spock said.

“Oh,” Jim looked a bit guilty.  “Sorry.  Isn’t fear illogical though?”

Spock stiffened, and pulled his arm away from where it had been touching Jim’s through the fabric of their clothing.  “It is a normal response to stimuli,” he said.  “What is illogical is to allow it to control one’s actions.”

“Oh,” said Jim, looking both apologetic and ill at ease.  “Sorry.”

“There is no offense where none is taken,” Spock said, somewhat grudgingly.

Jim’s breath huffed out in something that could have been called a laugh.  “And you never take offense,” he said, reaching out to adjust Spock’s bandana once more.  Spock intercepted his hand, and lowered it.

“If the cause was sufficient, one might,” Spock allowed, lifting his hand away from Jim’s.

Jim’s eyes twinkled.  “Never with me though,” he practically crowed, poking Spock in the shoulder.

“Apparently so,” Spock sighed.  Jim was beginning to remind him to some extent of Sybok during his stranger moods.  He wondered how this might bode for their future.

“Admit it, you like me.  You’re glad you saved my life.”

“I will do no such thing.”

Jim leaned back in his seat.  “I’ll get you to say it one of these days,” he said.

Spock inclined his head.  “I look forward to your future attempts.  I am sure that they will prove to be most fascinating.”

Jim got out his data pad and clicked it open.  “I think that’s your favorite word.  Besides ‘illogical,’ that is.”

“It is illogical to favor one word over another.”

“Uh huh.”  Jim was clearly distracted at this point, tongue between his teeth as he scrolled through something on his pad.

Spock was beginning to wonder if their conversation had ceased, and was contemplating accessing his own, borrowed data pad to read up on Earth history, when Jim spoke again.

“You ever heard of chess?”

Spock straightened up from where he had been reaching into his bag.  “Negative.”

Jim moved a bit in his chair, bringing his data pad’s screen into Spock’s line of vision.  On it, there was an image of an eight by eight, checkered board, with sixteen small black figures lined up one side, and sixteen small white figures lined up on the other.

“I assume this is the ‘chess’ to which you refer?” Spock inquired.  “Am I to surmise that this is a game of sorts?”

Jim nodded.  “It’s a pretty logical game,” he said.  “Thought you might like to learn.  Humans have been playing it for centuries.  There’s all sorts of rules and strategies.”

“What are its origins?”

Jim screwed up his face.  “Um, you know I’m not sure?  Let me look.”  He took his data pad back, and typed something into it.  “Hmm, says it originated in India around the sixth century in the Common Era, and modern tournaments began in the mid-nineteenth century.”

“Fa—” Spock caught himself.  “Interesting,” he said instead.

Jim’s eyes gleamed.  “Want to play?  It’s going to be a long flight.”

“I am not adverse to learning,” said Spock.  “What is the ultimate purpose of the game?”

The corners of Jim’s eyes crinkled.  “The main point is to capture your opponent’s king,” he began, indicating the piece.  He stopped.  “Wait, maybe I should name all the pieces.”

“That would, perhaps, be of assistance,” Spock said.

Jim tilted his head.  “I’m beginning to get this feeling that Vulcans only keep that zen face so they can sass their human friends without being caught,” he mused, as he zoomed in on the pieces on the screen.

Spock sat up straighter, “The mastering of emotions is the cornerstone of modern Vulcan civilization,” he said, not quite frowning.

“Uh huh,” Jim said.  “You didn’t say ‘Vulcans don’t have friends,’ this time,” he added.  He pointed at a piece.  “Now, this is the queen.  She’s the most important, because she can move any way she wants, in whatever way she wants.”

Unsure of how to respond to Jim’s earlier comment, Spock kept silent.  The Vulcan definition and allowance of friendship was murky.  But if Spock was to have any peace during his time spent among these humans – and among this particular human – it appeared that he would need to clear the water.

 Spock lost his first game of chess spectacularly.  And his second.  And his third.

“I do not understand,” he muttered, staring at the ruins of his pieces after their fourth game.  “This appears to be a game of logic.  Humans are innately less logical than Vulcans.  My losses do not make sense.”

“There is an element of strategy you employ against the person you play with,” Jim shrugged.  “Also, I have a pretty high ranking.  Don’t feel bad, you’re doing well for a beginner.”

“Vulcans do not ‘feel bad’” Spock corrected automatically.  His eyebrows drew together.  “You neglected to mention a high ranking during our previous conversations,”

“Would it have made a difference?” Jim asked, setting up the pieces again.

Spock considered this.  “I suppose not.”

“Thought so,” Jim said.  He clasped Spock by the shoulder with one hand, and shook him a little.  “You’re really doing great, Spock,” he said, face very earnest.  “We’ve just got to play some more games, and maybe you should read up on some strategy, but after that you’ll be playing like a pro in no time!”

“Jim, please cease manhandling me,” Spock said through gritted teeth, having learned over their time on the container ship that Jim responded best to direct commands.  Perhaps it was time for another treatise on Vulcan cultural mores?  He was certain he had mentioned important details such as his comfortable level of touch, but it was also extremely likely that he had been too subtle about it.

Jim released him.  “Sorry,” he said, cheeks turning red.  “I keep forgetting.”

Spock decided to let it go.  “I am to play white?”

“Loser gets white,” Jim said.

“I shall be playing white for the next millennium,” Spock muttered to himself in Vulcan.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Spock said.  He moved a pawn forward two spaces.  “Your turn.”

After two more games, Jim grew fatigued and fell asleep, lightly snoring in the chair next to him.  Assured his companion was oblivious to the world, Spock pulled out his data pad and began searching for chess strategies.  Honestly, it was intolerable, a Vulcan losing out to a human at a game of logic.  Determined to win their next game, he located a likely set of instructions and strategies, and began to read.

“I bet you’re researching chess strategies,” Jim yawned several hours later, as they began to descend.

Spock closed down his pad, but not before bookmarking his page.  “I trust you rested well?”

“Like a baby,” Jim said.  He squinted at the window.  “Looks like we’re going down.”

“Thank god,” mumbled McCoy from across the way.  He nudged at Sulu, who had fallen asleep slumped against him, and was now drooling on his shoulder.  “Get up.”

Sulu grumbled something, eyes still squeezed shut.

McCoy elbowed him.  “There’s only one person in my life allowed to drool on me like this, and it sure ain’t you.  Now wake the fuck up.”

“Yeah?” Sulu rubbed at his eyes.  “Who, Kirk?  Cause he’s always doing it.”

“I do not!” Jim defended.

McCoy’s eyes went flinty and then unspeakably soft.  “My daughter,” he said shortly.

Sulu immediately sat up, looking more awake and also guilty, if Spock was reading the expression correctly.  Spock interrupted his stuttered apology.

“I did not know you had a daughter,” he said to McCoy.  McCoy clenched his fists, gaze moving to the rest of the inhabitants in the plane, who were either asleep, or pretending not to listen.

“She’s gone,” he said finally.  “It’s no secret.”  He looked away.

“She is deceased?” Spock asked attempting to be delicate although, from the strangled noise Jim made next to him, he suspected he had failed in that regard.

McCoy scrubbed his face with his hands, and took the last remaining sip of the bottle he had opened at the beginning of the flight.  “She’s not dead,” he said harshly, slamming the bottle down.  Next to him, Sulu flinched.  “She disappeared.”

Spock looked at Jim, “I do not understand.”

Jim shrugged, looking uncomfortable, his mouth in a thin line.  “Kids disappear sometimes,” he said.  “They’ll go outside and not come back.  Sometimes just gone from their bedrooms.  It’s fucked up, been going on for years and years.”

“And the authorities do not investigate these disappearances?”

“Hell,” McCoy said with a ferocity to his demeanor that Spock had not yet seen.  “I know who took her.  Vanished two days after I turned the Bureau down, the first time, didn’t she?  That’s why I—” he broke off, staring moodily out the port window at the lights of the cities below.  “Well, you know.” He gestured at Uhura, and the rest of the Resistance by proxy.  “Fuck ‘em.”

Spock could do nothing but nod.

The silence in the plane was now uncomfortable, and Spock was glad when the co-pilot announced their descent into the city of Edinburgh.  Jim’s demeanor brightened a bit, and he lunged for his bag.  Spock watched him with a tolerant sort of trepidation.

“Here you go!” Jim said, brandishing a knitted cap.  “It’s already mid-September, so it’s starting to get kind of cold at night.  Plus, best way to hide your ears.”

Spock stared at it.  “The design is— what function do the feline ears on the cap serve?”

Jim opened his mouth, but Uhura beat him to it.  “God, Kirk.  I told you not to take that stupid hat.  Here’s a beanie for you.”  She produced another, black and green and much more streamlined, hat to wear, and tossed it to Spock.  “Kirk just thinks it’d be funny to see you wear something so ridiculous.”

Nodding his thanks, Spock removed the hated bandana and pulled the black and green hat over his ears and eyebrows.  He swiveled around to eye Jim, who was attempting to look innocent.

“Not funny,” Jim protested, “Hilarious.”

“I see,” Spock said, looking down his nose at Jim.  “This is more of your human teasing?”

“Nothing gets past you,” Jim grinned.  He folded the hat.  “It could have been kind of cute.  Match the ears.”

“I’m going to gag,” said McCoy in an undertone to Sulu.  Spock, blessed with Vulcan hearing, understood him anyway, but figured McCoy’s confessions as to his physiological ailments were none of his concern.

“We are landing?” Chekov questioned from across the isle.

Uhura nodded.  “Should be about ten minutes, I think.”

“Oh good,” Chekov said.  He tilted his head to the side.  “You have arranged things with the authorities, yes?” he asked, the tightness to his voice betraying him the slightest bit.

“Of course,” Uhura said.

Chekov relaxed back into his seat.  “Oh good,” he said.  “I have missed talking to Mr. Scott.  It would be a shame if I could only speak to him from a jail cell.”

Spock’s eyebrow went up.

Jim winked at him.  “Revolutionaries, Spock.  Remember?  Not criminals.”

Casting a long look over the motley collection of humans, Spock did not deign to reply.


	11. Soar with the Wind VI

**Soar with the Wind VI**  
  
After landing on the outskirts of Edinburgh and making their way into the city in a series of convoys designed to look not at all suspicious, Jim found himself standing in front of a store on Clark Street, wondering just when Uhura had decided to go insane.  
  
“This is a clothing store,” he said, sneaking a glance at Spock.  The Vulcan was unabashedly entranced by a collection of wind-up toys in the display window.  
  
“Charity shop,” said Uhura.  She pushed her hair out of her face.  “Believe me, this is the place.”  
  
“It’s closed,” Jim pointed out.  “Also, it’s midnight.  And I think those drug dealers over there are giving us looks.”  
  
“Goddammit Jim, just knock on the stupid door,” McCoy said.  He hugged himself, shivering.  “It’s getting cold out here.”  
  
“I’ve got a hat you can wear,” said Jim.  
  
Uhura stepped up next to him and banged briskly on the door.  Nothing happened.  She banged again.  
  
“Well, I think I saw a nice little hotel on our way in here,” Jim began, but his words died off as a light clicked on.  The door swung open and a man stood there for a moment, blinking at them.  Then a wide smile split his face.  
  
“Nyota, my dear!” he exclaimed, reaching to take her in a hug.  Jim reeled at the thickness of his accent.  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”  
  
“A few months,” Uhura agreed, hugging him back.  After a few seconds they separated and she turned towards the rest of the party.  “You know most of these guys, but we’ve got a few new faces.  This is Jim Kirk.  Kirk, this is Montgomery Scott.”  
  
“A Kirk!” said Scott, taking Jim’s hand with enthusiasm.  “I would bet you’ve got a few distant relatives puttering about here, eh?”  
  
“Uh,” said Jim, taken aback.  “I— maybe?”  He put on a strained smile.  “Is Kirk a Scottish name?” he hissed frantically at McCoy, who shrugged.  
  
“And this,” Uhura motioned toward Spock, “Is Spock.”  
  
Spock nodded politely, hands clasped behind his back.  Scott’s eyes lit up.  “Oh, so you’re our special case.  I’ve heard all about you from Ms. Nyota.  I must say Mr. Spock, I’m that eager to discuss some things with you.  Always been interested in space travel, glad to meet a man who’s actually gone and done the thing.”  
  
Spock bobbed his head again, inching the slightest bit towards Jim.  “I shall answer as many questions as I am able,” he said.  
  
Scott nodded.  “Wouldn’t expect any less from a spacefaring sort.  I suppose you’ve got all manner of non-interference laws for visiting strange planets, am I right?”  
  
“Indeed,” said Spock, a new measure of respect entering his tone.  
  
“Well, that would only make sense, wouldn’t it?”  He nodded to McCoy and Sulu, and beamed another grin at Chekov.  “Pavel, my lad!  We’ve missed you around these parts.”  
  
“I would not miss returning for the world, Mr. Scott,” said Chekov, making his way towards the entrance.  “If only to once again prove the superiority of vodka over scotch!”  
  
“Fighting words for a man in scotch country,” countered Scott, waggling his finger.  Uhura cleared her throat, and Scott suddenly seemed to realize that he had half a dozen strangers standing at the doorstep of his shop after midnight.  He glanced out at the mostly empty street, and motioned them inside.  “Well, come in, come in.  Don’t mind the messiness of the shop, the real place is downstairs, as you know.” His gaze passed over Jim and Spock, and he amended, “Well, as most of you know, anyway.”  
  
The shop was filled with racks of mismatched, used clothing, haphazardly organized; and stacks of old toys, dishes and knickknacks piled on the shelves built into the wall.  Spock itched to get his hands on some of the old Earth technology, but betrayed nothing of this in his countenance, except perhaps for a lingering gaze at a broken down vidset.   
  
They trooped down the stairs into a room that was basically a continuation of the first.  This time though, Scott led to them to a curtained off area toward the back.  With a wink at Nyota, he pulled the curtain, stepped inside the small changing room, and then twisted the clothes hook nailed into the wall.  Both of Spock’s eyebrows shot up as the entire back of the changing room swung outward to reveal a hallway.  
  
Jim whirled around to face Uhura.  “You said he wasn’t a secret agent,” he accused her.  “Seriously?  What the hell is this?”  
  
“Fascinating,” said Spock.  
  
Scott laughed.  “A what?” he said.  “‘Course not.  I’m an engineer.”  
  
“And you have a secret tunnel under your used clothes store,” Jim said, enunciating every word.  “I’m sorry, but that’s weird.”  
  
Scott shrugged.  “Well, I had to have a spot for my lab, didn’t I?  Can’t trust leaving anything at the University— they’re always being watched, down there.  Although it took me a few good months to figure out the bastards were messing with my calculations.  So—” he spread his hands to indicate the hallway, which was surprisingly well lit with small lamps posted on the sides of the walls.  “Here we have my real laboratory.  Not the mockup at the Uni with all the dodgy equipment.”  
  
“University?” inquired Spock.  He was the last to step into the hall, and Scott pulled on another coat hanger, the door clanging shut.  
  
“Of Edinburgh,” Scotty said over his shoulder, leading them down the passage.  It was short and soon branched off into two.  “George Square is about a ten minute walk from here, I should say.  Although my business is all in the Kings Buildings, which are a wee bit further down.”  
  
“You are a professor?”  
  
“Of a sort,” Scott said.  “That way’s the lab.”  He indicated the left side branch.  “And this side is where I keep all my unexpected guests.”  
  
“Not exactly unexpected,” Uhura said, voice dry.  “If I recall right, you’re the one who contacted _us_.”  
  
Scott shrugged.  “Well, I couldn't think about anyone else who’d care about the government messing with my calculations.  I figured if they were going to be bastards about me trying to get us all out of the bloody Neolithic, then I’d be one right back at them.”  
  
Spock stopped walking, Scott’s words catching up with him.  He furrowed his brow.  “Calculations?” he said, voice carefully modulated.  “May I inquire as to the nature of these calculations, Mr. Scott?”  
  
“Oh, aye,” said Scott.  He grinned.  “You want to see them?”  
  
“I would indeed,” Spock said, surprising even himself with the level of interest in his voice.  
  
Uhura cleared her throat.  Scott jumped, and looked at her a bit guiltily.  “I’d be glad to show you,” he assured Spock, “Just as soon as I get you all settled.”  
  
Spock nodded and placed his hands behind his back as Scott resumed the tour.  
  
“My place is well nigh impossible to find, what with all the jamming signals I’ve put into the walls.  You can be sure I made sure of _that_ before I ever invited any of you lot over,” Scott continued, ushering them all into the set of rooms on the right.  “I heat the whole building day and night to thwart any thermal-searchers.  Worked like a charm for the past few years.”  
  
“It’s the best Headquarters we’ve ever had,” Uhura confirmed.  “I don’t know what we’d do without Montgomery.”  
  
Scott’s ears turned red.  “I built this place for a lab first, then added on,” he continued.  “There’s bunks for twelve, as some of you know already, a small kitchen, two showers and three toilets.  Sorry if they’re a bit manky, I haven’t got in to clean them just yet.  Ladies and gents will have to share.”  
  
“Nice,” Jim whistled, sitting on one of the bunks and lightly bouncing up and down on it.  “Can you access the ‘net from here?”  
  
Scott wrinkled his nose.  “On good days,” he said.  “When the wind is blowing just right and I’ve made all the proper goat sacrifices, that is.”  
  
Jim’s face fell.  
  
“You can access it from the shop however,” Scott said.  “Although even that’s a bit off.  But the jamming signals down here make it well nigh impossible for anything to get in or out.  Sorry.”  
  
Jim gave a halfhearted smile.  “No worries,” he said, hopping off the bed.  His eye caught something, and he strode over to the far side of the room where two armchairs sat next to a table, a stack of board games underneath.  “I think I’ve found some entertainment.”  He dug through the boxes until pulling out one in particular.  “Chess, Spock?” he queried, holding it out for Spock’s inspection.  “Hmm, looks like the set-up for the 3D version is in here too.  That’s only been around for a couple of years.”  
  
Spock came closer.  “You may find my abilities somewhat improved from our last game,” he warned, taking the box from Jim and examining it with a critical eye.  
  
“Is that a challenge, Mr. Spock?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Spock allowed.  
  
Scott coughed.  “So here you all are, anyway.  Were you wanting to see my calculations, Mr. Spock?  I can show them to you now, if you’re so inclined.”  
  
Spock straightened, still holding the boxed chess set.  “I do not wish to impose,” he said.  
  
Scott shook his head, “No, no, not at all,” he said.  “To tell the truth, no one except for me and Pavel over there ever seem interested at all.  Or the folks down at the Uni, but I can’t show them the real thing, can I?  Next thing I know it’ll all have disappeared and I’d be on my way to a post in Siberia.  It’d be a treat to have someone else look in on it.  Especially someone such as yourself.”  
  
“Very well,” said Spock.  He cast a half-apologetic glance at Jim.  “It appears that our chess game will have to wait.”  
  
Jim lowered his hand from covering a yawn.  “Actually,” he said, taking the box from Spock and setting it on the chair.  “Is it all right if I come too?  I’d like to see.”  
  
“Would you?” said Scott, and now he was positively gleeful.  
  
Jim shrugged, “I mean, I’m not an engineer, but I’d still just like to have a look.”  
  
“Fair enough!” agreed Scott.  He looked around the room, his eyes landing on Chekov, who had stretched out across a top bunk, still dressed, and was clearly fast asleep.  “Well, I was going to ask Pavel to join us, but it looks like he’s out for the count.”  
  
A wry smile tugged at the corner of Jim’s mouth.  “Looks like.  Bones, you coming?”  
  
“Do I look like an engineer?” McCoy said, in the midst of wrestling off a boot.  “I’m a doctor.  The only machines I get are the biological ones.”  
  
“Could be cool,” Jim wheedled.  
  
McCoy threw his sock at him.  Jim batted it away.  “Go on,” he said, although there was no real bite to it.  “Maybe I’ll be able to get some sleep without you in here sounding like a herd of elephants.”  
  
Jim clasped a hand to his chest.  “Are you implying that I snore?” he said indignantly.  
  
“No, I’m definitely telling you,” said McCoy.  
  
“Asshole,” said Jim.  
  
McCoy smiled, showing teeth.  “Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”  
  
Jim scowled at him.  “Come on, Spock,” he said, ignoring the doctor.  “We know when we’re not wanted.”  
  
They left the room, Scotty directing them back down the hall and off to the other side, into another room, this one filled with tables and various bits of machinery, some of it lit up, some of it in scattered pieces.  A desk in the far corner was covered in three computer monitors, scraps of paper, and pencil nubs.  
  
“This is your laboratory, Mr. Scott?”  
  
“Sure is, Mr. Spock.”  
  
Spock lightly touched a piece of wiring sticking out of what may have at one point been a remote control.  “You have . . . many projects,” he said, diplomatically.  
  
“Wow, how do you find anything?” Jim asked.  “Hey, is that a— whatsit, uh, one of those VDV player things?”  
  
“DVD player,” Scott replied, turning on his computer.  “Completely obsolete now, of course.  But these are just for tinkering.  My real work is all in here.”  He indicated the monitors, which now had a string of letters and numbers scrawled across them.  “You— can, read English, Mr. Spock?” he added belatedly.  
  
“Of course,” Spock said, letting go of the knob he had been fiddling with as Jim jabbed him in the side with his elbow.  
  
Jim bent over the desk to take in the equations.  “Huh,” he said.  “Looks like something to do with energy and space, but it’s a bit beyond me.  What do you think?”  
  
Spock leaned around him to look.  His eyes widened.  “Fascinating,” he murmured, leaning in for a closer view before once more standing upright.  Both eyebrows raised, he turned to regard Scott, who had crossed his arms.  
  
“Now I know,” Scott said, “You’re probably not allowed to give me any clues or some such.  But,” and here his face suddenly grew a little vulnerable.  “Do you think you could tell me if, well, if I’m on the right track and all?  Shame to waste this much time on something that wouldnae even work.”  
  
Spock’s expression grew still.  Without replying, he took another glance at Scott’s work, his eyes wandering up and down the lines of equations.  He turned back to Scott, who bit his lip and locked gazes with him.  
  
Scott’s own eyes widened as Spock gave the very smallest of nods.  His body slumped in relief, then he broke out into another one of his broad smiles.  “Well I’ll be,” he said, giving a slight laugh.  “Thank you for your input, Mr. Spock.  You are quite a useful man.  Most helpful.  Most-bloody-helpful indeed.”  
  
“I don’t get it,” said Jim, looking between the two, then back at the calculations on the screen.  
  
“It is unimportant,” Spock said.  “With your permission, Mr. Scott, might I explore your laboratory further at a more convenient time?  I believe my companion has grown fatigued.  
  
“Hey!” Jim protested.  “You’ve been up just as long as I have.”  
  
“Vulcans require less sleep than humans,” said Spock.  “You have not achieved the optimum amount of sleep for a human in three days.”  
  
Jim narrowed his eyes at him.  “And you know that, how?”  
  
“Three days ago you slept for only five hours at night, in addition to a two hour nap at midday,” started Spock.  “Two days ago you were only able to achieve—”  
  
“Okay, you could have just stopped at that last sentence,” Jim said.  
  
Spock tilted his head to one side.  “You did ask, Jim.”   
  
“And I will remember never to do so ever again,” Jim muttered, covering his face with his palm.  
  
“Back to the room then,” Scott said, shooing them out.  “I’m going to give these another lookover, but I expect you fellows can find your own way?”  
  
“Yeah,” Jim said.  “Thanks for showing us.  Spock’ll probably be in here tinkering by tomorrow morning.  You might want to lock up your more important projects.”  
  
Spock gave him an affronted look.  
  
Jim smirked at him.  “Teasing, teasing, of course.  You’re too easy.”  
  
Spock turned his back on him.  “With your permission, I would indeed appreciate the opportunity to further explore your laboratory,” he said to Scott.  
  
“Always,” said Scott.  “As long as I’m around, I don’t mind at all.”  
  
“I understand,” said Spock.  His eyes traveled to Jim, who was now leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, foot tapping.  “You are an impatient being,” he said.  
  
Jim held his hands out as if to say, ‘Who, me?’  Spock gave him another steady stare, and Jim lightly shoved him out the door in front of him.  
  
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Scott,” he called back.  
  
“Mmhmm, ‘morrow” Scott replied, obviously distracted, his pale face eerily lit by the glow of the monitors in front of him.  
  
Back in the main room, most of their fellow occupants had already fallen asleep.  The exception to this was Sulu, who gave them a brief nod from one of the armchairs, before turning back to his data pad.  
  
There was one bunk bed left.  Jim eyed it.  “Top or bottom?” he asked Spock.  
  
“Bottom,” said Spock flatly.  He might not fear heights, but he had no desire to sleep so far from the ground, on a platform of dubious quality.  Humans shared a common ancestor with tree dwelling primates, did they not?  Let Jim take the top.  
  
“I guess that’s fair enough,” Jim said.  He had already halfway taken his shirt off, and his pants soon followed suit.  Wearing only a pair of boxers, he crawled into a ratty looking T-shirt, and bent over his bag, producing what Spock recognized as teeth cleaning implements.  Spock had been given some of his own, but the human toothpaste tasted strange in his mouth and he had asked instead for a supply of sodium bicarbonate.  To his surprise, it had been easily obtained aboard the ship.  
  
He watched as Jim disappeared into the bathroom, noting how very interesting it was that Jim’s physiology so mirrored his own.  
  
His thoughts were becoming increasingly illogical.  Spock shook his head and began to disrobe as well.  He had finished removing his coat and shirt, clad only in his trousers, when he noticed that Jim had emerged from the bathroom, and was staring at him.  Feeling self-conscious, Spock quickly pulled on his own, much warmer nightclothes.  
  
“Yes?” he queried.  
  
Jim blinked.  “Nothing,” he said, averting his eyes.  “I just— it’s just so weird that you’re from another planet and we look so— so alike, you know?”  
  
Spock nodded.  “I was contemplating a similar prospect only minutes ago.  There are many bipedal, mammalian species scattered throughout the galaxy.  The study as to _why_ , is an ever ongoing one.”  
  
“Yeah?  What have they come up with?” Jim asked, scrambling with ease up the ladder to the top bunk.  He lay on his side and propped his cheek in his hand.  
  
“There are two main theories.  One is the Preserver’s Theory, which postulates that a species of beings unknown to us, for reasons also unknown, modified and scattered humanoid-like forms throughout the galaxy.”  He sat down on his bunk.  “The other is the theory of Parallel Evolution, which assumes that for some reason, the bipedal mammalian form is among the most efficient for achieving sentience.”  
  
“Huh,” Jim said, shifting to make himself more comfortable.  “Which one do you think is right?”  
  
Spock was quiet for a moment.  “I am unsure,” he said at last.  “Although I find myself illogically leaning toward the Preserver’s Theory.  There is something aesthetically pleasing about the thought that though we are beings from different worlds, we are not truly so different from one another.  That we share a common root.”  He looked contrite as he stood and prepared to head into the bathroom.  “As I said, it is an illogical preference.”  
  
“No, no,” Jim smiled.  “I agree with you.  I like that one better.  Like we’re all— brothers from another mother, you know?”  
  
Spock cocked his head.  “I believe I understand the meaning behind the colloquialism,” he said, after a moment.  His voice turned dry.  “Though the colloquialism itself leaves much to be desired.  Good night, Jim.”  
  
“Night, Spock.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
After three days of hiding underneath Scott’s shop, Spock was relatively certain that if they did not find Jim an outlet for his energy, they were all in serious danger of suffering some sort of mental break.  
  
“We will go outside,” he stated, standing next to their bunk, hands linked behind his back, face severe.  “You will wear a hat and spectacles.  I too, will wear a hat.”  He produced the aforementioned items, and shoved them at Jim.  “There will be no more discussion on this.”  
  
“Whaaa?” Jim yawned.  Still clad only in his boxers and t-shirt, he scratched at his stomach and caught the multicolored rubber ball he had been bouncing off the wall, in one hand.  He threw it at the wall again.  “What are you talking about?”  
  
Spock’s eye twitched.  “We are going outside,” he said again, snatching the ball from the air before Jim could reclaim it.  “Now.”  
  
“Pushy, pushy,” Jim muttered, sitting up.  He glowered down at Spock’s head and held out his hand.  “Give me back my ball.”  
  
“No,” said Spock.  He picked Jim’s jeans up off the floor, and handed them to him instead.  “Put on your clothes.  We’re going.”  
  
“What, like, forever?  Are you kidnapping me?  Am I to be your virgin bride?  Am I— hey, where are you going?”  
  
“I will wait for you in Mr. Scott’s shop,” Spock said, already halfway out the door.  He turned back the slightest bit, just to make sure that Jim was actually following his orders.  “Do not take more then five Earth minutes.”  
  
“Like I know any other kind of minute!” Jim hollered at his retreating form.  He slumped back against the pillow.  “Man, give the alien an inch and he takes a mile.”  
  
“Five minutes, Jim,” Spock called back as his footsteps receded down the tunnel.  
  
Jim took six minutes before he joined Spock in browsing the hideous collection of printed shirts.  
  
“I think you would look good in this one,” Jim said, pointing at the brightest, yellowiest of the bunch.  
  
“I do not believe it would flatter my skin tone,” Spock replied.  He tugged at Jim’s wrist.  “Let us go.”  
  
“How’d you manage to get the okay for this?” Jim wondered as they waved goodbye to Scott’s assistant and walked out, the door jingling shut behind them.  “Didn’t Uhura say something about staying on the down low?”  
  
“She was forced to come to an agreement with me when I pointed out that your levels of unspent energy and the well being of the property and people around you, appeared to follow an inverse relationship.”  
  
“She wanted us out of her hair,” Jim translated.  
  
“Actually, I believe it was at Mr. Scott’s request.  Apparently the noise of this,” Spock produced the rubber ball, rolling it between his thumb and index finger.  Jim made a grab for it, but missed as Spock tucked it back into his pocket, “bouncing off the wall opposite his lab, was proving a distraction.”  
  
“They could have said something,” Jim said, as they turned left toward Holyrood Park.  
  
“They did.”  
  
Jim pulled his hat a little further down on his head, then stuck his hands in his back pockets.  “So, where are we going?”  
  
“On Mr. Scott’s recommendation, we are going to a place he called ‘Arthur’s Seat,’ which is the remnant of an ancient volcano.”  
  
“Like, as in King Arthur?”  
  
Spock gave him a sidelong glance.  “I am unsure,” he said.  “Mr. Scott himself appeared to be uncertain of the origins of the name.”  
  
“Huh, interesting.  So, why are we going there?”  
  
Spock stopped and pointed.  Jim followed his finger and saw, now free of the encumbering roofs of the street, a cragged, dome-like hill.  The lower levels were covered in long grasses with gentle slopes, until about two third of the way up, at which point the hill rose steeply, covered only in bare, igneous rock.  
  
“To climb it,” Spock said.  
  
“Whoah,” said Jim.  “There has got to be an awesome view from up there.  I bet— Spock, what are you doing?”  
  
“Taking samples,” Spock replied, bent over and picking through the rocks on the ground.  He selected two, and placed them in his pocket next to Jim’s rubber ball.  
  
“You are such a nerd,” sighed Jim.  He pulled on Spock’s elbow, and they continued onward towards the park.  
  
The climb was fairly short, as such things go, barely more than half an hour.  Yet, it was still with great satisfaction that Spock and Jim emerged at the top, clambering up the final series of boulders to emerge onto the very peak.  Jim stretched out his arms and turned in a full circle, admiring the city sprawled out below them.  
  
“Look, Spock!  There’s the castle!  We should go there.”  
  
“I believe they check for identification at the entrance,” Spock said.  
  
Jim waved his hand dismissively.  “Whatever.  I think Uhura’s pretty much got us covered on that front.”  He placed his hands on his hips.  “But look at that view.  Pretty awesome, huh?”  
  
“Indeed,” said Spock, who was more focused on chipping off a piece of rock to add to his growing collection of pebbles.  Jim rolled his eyes and grabbed at Spock’s shoulders, turning him to face outward.  
  
“If you’re going to travel all the way here, might as well take in the view,” he said.  “Come on.”  
  
Spock was quiet for a moment.  “It is very aesthetically pleasing,” he admitted after a moment.  Jim beamed, the heavy wind making his cheeks ruddy.  He turned the opposite direction.  
  
“That must be the ocean,” he said.  He looked down.  “I didn’t realize this park was so big,” he said.  “Looks like there are some trails down there.  We could go take a look if you want.”  
  
Spock looked as well.  The north slope of Arthur’s Seat dropped down far more steeply than the south, into a series of hills.  He recalled that a sign they had passed on their way up indicated the presence of some ruins.  “I would not be averse to such a course of action,” he said.  
  
“Great,” enthused Jim.  He began to step down, then hesitated.  “Although, I’ve got to admit, I’m not quite sure the best way to get down from this direction.”  
  
Spock moved beside him.  “That way, perhaps?”  
  
“Maybe,” Jim said.  “Be sure to grab me if it all goes south.”  
  
Spock raised an eyebrow.  “Technically, that direction is northeast.”  
  
“You’re hilarious,” Jim told him, as he scrabbled down the rock face.  
  
They spent the majority of the day exploring the further reaches of Holyrood Park.  As evening descended and a fog came in, the entirety of the city’s noise became muffled from sound and from sight, leaving Jim and Spock to argue over which direction they had to go to actually exit the park.  Spock won, and they headed north down a ravine, eventually emerging onto a road near the edge of the Royal Mile.  
  
“Whew,” Jim said, as the city lights became clearer.  “That fog was really something.  Like being in another world.  I was kind of expecting for the Ghost of Scotland Past to pop up.”  
  
Spock looked sideways at him.  “For a technologically dependent species, humans are oddly superstitious.”  A pause.  “Unless you are employing another human cultural reference.”  
  
“Got it in one,” Jim said.  “Dickens.”  
  
“Pardon me?” said Spock, affronted.  
  
Jim huffed out a breath.  “Charles Dickens, a famous author,” he said.  “From his book, A Christmas Carol.”  He shook his head.  “Which of course, you’ve never read.  Sorry, I keep forgetting you’re not . . .” he trailed off into an uncomfortable silence, the word _human_ remaining unspoken between them.  
  
“Is it well written?” Spock ventured, when the quiet began to grow oppressive.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Jim said, caught off guard.  He scratched his head.  “I’ll find it for you,” he promised.  “My copy’s, well— probably burnt to a crisp at this point, but it’s very famous.  It’s not even banned, like some of his other ones, so we could probably find it pretty easily.” He hesitated.  “If you want, that is.”  
  
“If it is not too much trouble,” Spock said.  “I would indeed appreciate the opportunity.”  
  
“Really?” Jim blurted out.  Then he covered his mouth with his hand.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.  I just, why are you so interested in Earth’s culture?  We’re kind of galactic nobodies, right?”  
  
Spock tilted his head to one side.  “Perhaps so that I might better understand my human companions.”  His expression turned wry, “As well as their obscure literary references.”  
  
Jim grinned a little self-consciously.  “Sorry about that.”  Then his face lit up.  “But you know, if we’re just talking about ghosts in general, they did once find bodies in the Salisbury crags, kind of close to Arthur’s Seat.  I read it on a sign back there.”  
  
“Yes,” said Spock, wrinkling his nose.  “I was aware.”  
  
“I’m just saying,” Jim said as they passed a fudge shop.  “Could be a lot of angry spirits hanging out there after dark.”  
  
Spock did not dignify that with an answer.  
  
As they walked down the Royal Mile, they passed storefronts ranging from tourist traps to legitimate tattoo parlors, and many small alleyways in-between.  They turned left at Spock’s bidding, to make their way across the bridge and back towards Clerk Street, where Scott’s hideout was located.  
  
“I’m kind of hungry,” Jim said suddenly, as they passed by a pub and the smell booze and fried food wafted out.  
  
Spock stopped.  “Do you require nourishment at this time?”  
  
“Uh,” Jim said, nearly running into him before stopping as well.  “Well I don’t require it, but it’d be nice.”  He shrugged, stepping around Spock and continuing to walk.  “But I can always wait until we get back to the shop.  There’s stuff there I can eat.  It’s probably not the best idea to go into a pub now, anyway.  People might notice something’s off.”  He nodded at Spock’s headgear.  
  
“If you are certain,” Spock said, also beginning to walk again.  
  
Jim laughed as they passed a bank.  “And you know what?  I realized that I don’t even have any money.  That’d really get us noticed.”  
  
“I do,” said Spock.  
  
Jim paused and turned back toward him.  “You have money?” he said, voice skeptical.  “And where did you get that, Mister?”  
  
“From Mr. Scott,” Spock said, as though this should be obvious.  He delved into the pocket of his coat and held out a wad of notes and a handful of coins for Jim’s inspection.  “Would this be sufficient to pay for a meal?”  
  
“With his permission, I hope,” Jim muttered, peeling through the cash.  
  
“Of course,” said Spock, drawing himself upright in indignation and ignoring the urge to remove Jim’s hand.  “Mr. Scott recommended we stop at a . . .” his forehead furrowed.  “A chippy?” he said.  “He said there was one only a few streets from his shop.  He said that they sell a wide selection of chips, which I assumed to be obvious, although I am still not sure what, exactly, constitutes a chip.”  His arm was beginning to grow tired.  He nudged the currency towards Jim.  “Jim, perhaps you should take charge of this.”  
  
“Oh,” said Jim.  He smiled, taking some of the money and pocketing it.  “Well, in that case.  If Mr. Scott said so . . .”  
  
“Indeed,” Spock said, tone grave.  He dropped his arm.  
  
“Then we should definitely go,” Jim finished.  He looked concerned for a moment.  “Would you eat chips?  They’re basically potato – which is a tuber—”  
  
“I am aware of what a potato is, Jim.”  
  
“Right.  Anyway, it’s chopped up and fried.  Sometimes in animal fat, sometimes in vegetable oil.  I can ask which one they use.”  
  
“That would be agreeable,” Spock said, meanwhile making a resolution to visit a healer and check the state of his cardiovascular system upon his return to Vulcan.  While interesting, he had noticed that in general, traditional Earth foodstuffs did not appear to be all that beneficial to a significant portion of the body, aside from the stomach.  Or perhaps those were just the foods Jim had introduced him to?  He should probably ask McCoy.  
  
After a short period of continued wandering down the foggy street, they did indeed find a fish and chips shop and, after ensuring that the chips were fried in vegetable oil (My niece is a vegetarian,” grunted the man behind the counter), Jim settled quite happily with a plate of chips smothered in gravy, while Spock went for the more simplistic, chips and vinegar.  
  
“Well?” asked Jim, licking salt and gravy from his fingertips.  
  
Spock closed his eyes.  One of these days, he and Jim were going to have to sit down and have a serious discussion regarding Vulcan cultural obscenities.  
  
“Spock, are you okay?”  
  
Spock opened his eyes.  “While I have doubts about their nutritional value, I find them sufficient for my needs at this time,” he said quickly, to cover for his lapse.  He wiped his greasy fingers on a napkin and tried to ignore the show Jim was unwittingly putting on.  It was . . . distracting.  
  
“I think that’s how most everybody feels,” Jim said.  He hopped off the stool, brushing crumbs from his front.  “Well, time to get back?”  
  
“We have been absent for nearly ten hours,” Spock agreed.  “I trust you have spent a significant amount of your excess energy at this point?”  
  
Jim winked at him.  “I always have excess energy,” he said as they headed out the door and into the night.  
  
“I have noticed this oddity,” Spock said.  
  
“I thought I noticed you noticing,” said Jim.  “I—”  
  
All of a sudden, he skidded to a halt.  His smile dropped into a frown.  “Did you hear that?”  
  
Spock coked his head.  “I do not hear anything.”  
  
Jim shook his head.  “Wait.  Stop.”  
  
After a few seconds, the sound came again.  A high wail, muffled through the, now very thick, fog.  
  
Jim’s eyes went flat.  “That sounds like a scream,” he bit out, all traces of his amusement gone.  
  
“What?” said Spock still trying to process the instantaneous change in Jim’s demeanor.  
  
“That sounded like a child’s scream,” Jim continued, now looking this way and that.  He faced a new direction as the sound came again.  
  
“What?” Spock repeated.  
  
But Jim wasn’t in the mood for questions.  He paced a little, while Spock watched, unaccountably nervous.  Jim’s expression was now almost Vulcan-like in its blankness.  He tilted his head from side to side, as if listening as hard as he could.  
  
“That way,” he said.  He pointed to their left, down the street.  
  
Spock strained his ears.  He heard it now, a faint noise, but it could have been anything – an animal, the screech of machinery, the—  
  
Jim grabbed at Spock’s wrist.  “Come on!” he demanded, whirling in the direction of the scream.  “Don’t just stand there, come on!”  He broke into a run.  
  
“Jim!” Spock protested as he was dragged along for the ride.  “Wait, where are we going?  What will you do?”  
  
But Jim shook his head, rushing headlong down the street, heedless of any physical barriers, dodging waste receptacles and street lamps with equal indifference.  
  
Spock, his wrist now freed, ran a few paces behind.  The fog so muted the pounding of his footsteps that even as he pivoted and sprinted down an alley (another scream, much louder than the first, echoed off the brick), the three shadowed figures grappling with something unseen against a wall were utterly unprepared for Jim to slam into them from behind.  
  
Spock slowed to a stop as Jim sent the three figures stumbling away from the wall.  His jaw nearly dropped as Jim went immediately into a crouch, avoiding a return swing from the foremost figure.  Spock’s mind worked furiously, calculating possibilities, trajectories, _he was not to interfere_.  
  
Jim grunted as a strike caught him in the side.  Spock caught sight of his expression— he wasn’t even looking at Spock.  He was looking at the child.  The girl child, back flat-up against the filthy side of the brick building—  Jim smashed the back of his fist into an assailant’s nose and wriggled free of another’s grip.  Before he even realized it, Spock was moving.  
  
His suss-mahn had improved to commendable levels since those uncomfortable days of his childhood.  All it took was one efficient squeeze at the juncture between the neck and shoulder.  Three men dropped in quick succession.  
  
The sudden silence was deafening.  
  
“What— Spock?” Jim wheezed, clutching at his abdomen.  He looked at the men on the ground.  “Did I know you could do that?”  
  
“You are a very foolish human,” Spock said, not sure what kind of emotions he was experiencing, but sure that they were strong enough to make controlling them very difficult.  
  
“I just—” his eyes widened in remembrance.  “The kid!”  
  
Spock turned.  The girl was eyeing them, but seemed unable to move any further than a slight edging along the wall.  He towered over her.  His arms felt useless at his sides.  
  
Jim pushed him out of the way, crouching down so that he and the girl were at eye level.  “Hey,” he said, voice suddenly very soft.  “Hey, are you hurt?”  
  
She shook her head emphatically, dirty blond curls fluttering.  
  
“Jim, perhaps we should notify the local authorities,” Spock muttered out of the corner of his mouth.  
  
Jim glanced up at him.  “Spock, I don’t think we’re the best people to go talk to the cops— oh shit, there she goes.”  
  
And indeed the child, taking advantage of their momentary distraction, had finally managed to coerce her limbs into cooperating and had bolted down the ally, back towards the main street.  Jim straightened and moved toward Spock as they watched her recede from sight, her book bag banging against her back as she ran.  
  
“Shit,” he said again.  
  
“This could prove troublesome,” Spock agreed.  
  
Jim nudged the three fallen men with the tip of his boot.  He spat on the ground next to them.  “Gold dirt druggies,” he said.  
  
Spock bent down.  “How do you know?”  
  
Jim pointed.  “Their skin,” he said.  “Look, it’s all scratched up.  The Dirt gets you high as fuck, but when you come down it’s supposed to make your skin really itchy.  See?”  He indicated the closest man’s face, which had deep, half-healed gouges in it.  “Some people nearly scratch their faces off.”  
  
“Is this drug common?”  
  
“Common enough,” Jim said.  He knelt and began to rummage through their pockets.  
  
“Jim!” Spock protested, shifting his weight uneasily.  He wanted to ask Jim how he had known what was happening.  How he had known what to do.  But this vulnerable place did not seem the ideal spot.  He filed the question away for a time when Jim might be more amenable.  For a time when the hardness had faded from his eyes.  “Jim, I do not think you should take their property.”  
  
“What?” Jim looked up at him.  “They’re dead, aren’t they?”  
  
“They are not,” Spock said emphatically.  “Merely unconscious.”  
  
Jim looked back down at them.  “Oh,” he said.  “Oh well.  What you did was still pretty cool.”  
  
Spock rubbed at his temples.  “We should leave,” he said.  “The girl might raise an alarm.”  
  
“I know,” Jim said.  He tossed a bag full of dark brown powder at Spock, who caught it on reflex and then looked as though he wished he hadn’t.  “Got something for you.”  
  
“Jim, I do not want this.”  
  
“You’re not even the tiniest bit curious?  You’re going to have to have _something_ to do until the next time they let us out again.  Which — judging by what happened here — might be a bit of a wait.”  
  
Spock was unsure whether to be appalled or stunned.  “You suggest I,” he searched for the vocabulary, “abuse stolen narcotics to assuage my boredom?” he said, his voice growing louder with each successive word.  
  
Jim shushed him, looking taken aback.  “What?  No!  Of course not.  Are you insane?  I thought you could analyze it or something.”  
  
Spock’s indignation dropped off a bit, though his level of skepticism remained the same.  “Analyze it?”  
  
“Well, it’s not like they really need it, right?”  Jim and Spock both glanced down at the three unconscious men.  
  
“Fair enough,” Spock conceded.  
  
“So, might as well give you some entertainment.  We can go bury it somewhere, later.”  
  
Spock remained doubtful.  “I do not think this is a good idea.  Surely its chemical makeup has already been documented?”  
  
Jim placed his hands on his hips.  “Look Spock, we don’t really have time to argue, so just—”  
  
“Someone is approaching!” Spock hissed, grabbing at Jim’s shoulders and pushing him away from the unconscious bodies and towards the other end of the ally.  Without thinking, he shoved the bag of gold dirt into the pocket of his coat as they made a dash for the main street, looking back to make sure they were not being followed.  Behind them, they could hear the beginning of surprised shouts as someone apparently caught sight of the three bodies.  
  
“Scott’s shop is only a few blocks away,” Jim panted, jerking his chin in the direction they had to go.  
  
“We cannot run all the way there, that would draw too much attention,” Spock said, slowing as he spoke.  
  
Jim nodded.  “You’re right.  Walk quickly then.”  
  
Spock gave him a look that seemed to convey _no shit_ as they half walked, half jogged up the street.  
  
“Slow,” Jim said under his breath as he caught sight of two men in uniform headed their way.  “Damn, they’re looking at us.  Must have sent a call out for two men.  Spock, give me your hand.”  
  
“Pardon?” said Spock, tensing as one of the uniformed figures began to head their way.  
  
“Your hand!” Jim snapped.  
  
“But—”  
  
Jim grabbed it, entwining their fingers.  Spock struggled to maintain a blank face at the cacophony of emotions bleeding through their contact.  “Just keep walking.  Just keep walking,” he muttered.  “Ignore us two little lovebirds . . . okay, never mind.  Look at us like we’re suspicious.  Fuck.  Um, Spock?”  
  
“What?” Spock said, half focused on the approaching threat, half focused on quelling the effect of Jim’s emotions.  
  
“Please don’t do that pinch thing to me, okay?”  
  
Spock shook his head.  “Why would I— _mmph_!” his voice was choked off as Jim yanked at his collar, manhandled him against a storefront with an efficient application of leverage and touched his mouth to Spock’s own with a surprising amount of force.  
  
While Spock’s instinctive reaction would have been to push Jim away, the unexpected strength of the human’s thoughts was sufficient to keep Spock in a daze, long enough for Jim to continue the kiss ( _kiss?  Yes, this was a human kiss.  His mother had described such behavior, though Spock had not expected to be on the receiving end of it_ ) before breaking it off of his own accord.  
  
Jim stepped back, face flaming red, but not before ascertaining that the police that had been heading their way had ambled off in another direction.  Spock touched his fingers to his mouth wordlessly, blinking up at Jim.  
  
“Sorry,” Jim said very quickly.  “I know, I probably just made you really uncomfortable but I couldn’t think of anything else to do.  If we’d run, they would’ve come after us.”  He squirmed a little at Spock’s somewhat slack jawed expression.  
  
“A distraction,” Spock finally managed.  “I see.  How . . .” he looked around.  “How very efficient.”  He realized belatedly that he was still slumped against the wall, and pushed himself off it.  The stone felt rough beneath his fingertips.  Like the stubble on Jim’s chin.  Spock shivered the thought away.  
  
“Let’s just get back to the shop and never mention this again,” Jim said, avoiding Spock’s gaze.  
  
Spock felt a slight stirring of resentment in his stomach.  Had intimate contact with him really been such a chore?  It was not as though he had initiated it!  
  
“I did not realize that you found contact with me so repulsive,” Spock said stiffly.  “I will take measures to ensure it does not happen again.”  
  
Jim’s body jerked  “What?  No I didn’t!”  
  
“You are exhibiting behaviors of discomfort at having done so,” Spock pointed out.  He began to walk.  
  
Jim pinched the bridge of his nose.  “I just didn’t want to make you more uncomfortable then you were already,” he said.  
  
“Vulcans do not get uncomfortable,” said Spock, picking up speed.  
  
“Okay, now I know you’re lying.  Spock—”  
  
“It is to be expected.  I am, after all, alien.”  
  
“Hey!” Jim objected.  “This has nothing at all to do with that.  I just thought— would you slow down a second?  Jesus Christ.”  He reached for Spock’s elbow, but Spock tugged out of his grip with relative ease.  
  
“There is Mr. Scott’s shop,” said Spock.  
  
Jim sighed.  “Fine,” he said, dropping his arm.  “I know you’re not listening, but I just didn’t want to make you any more uncomfortable.  It had nothing to do with the actual act of kissing you.  That wasn’t,” he cleared his throat.  “Unpleasant.”  
  
Spock halted at the front of the door.  He turned around.  “Not unpleasant,” he repeated, voice dry.  “How charitable.”  
  
Jim made a noise of aggravation deep in his throat.  “You’re blowing this all out of proportion.”  
  
“You are the one who initiated the kiss and then declared it repulsive,” Spock said.  
  
“Hey, I didn’t use that word.  You used that word.”  
  
“You said we should never speak of it again.”  
  
“Because I didn’t want to embarrass you any more!”  
  
Spock made as if to push the door open.  “Vulcans do not get embarrassed.”  
  
“Maybe not, but clearly they get pissy,” Jim shot back.  
  
“If you are attempting to elicit an emotional response, you will not be successful.”  
  
“I don’t need to elicit one, I’ve already got one!”  
  
“You do not.”  
  
“Oh my god you are actually impossible.”  Jim threw his hands up in the air.  “Okay, you know what?  I kissed you and I didn’t expect to be anything but embarrassed but I kind of liked it instead.  There.  Now you can get into a huff about something that’s true, instead of making shit up that I didn’t say.  Happy?  Oh wait, I forgot.  You’re never happy.”  He elbowed past Spock and opened the door himself, disappearing past the racks of clothing and down the stairs without waiting for Spock’s reply.  
  
Spock stood in the doorway for a full sixty seconds, processing and re-processing what he had just heard.  Realizing he was letting in a draft, he exhaled, stepped inside, and slowly made his way across the floor after Jim.


	12. Let Your Spirit Fly I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kupo for the awesome beta!

**Let your Spirit Fly I**  
  
When Spock awoke the next morning, Jim was gone.  
  
“Volunteered for a mission,” McCoy said, spooning his morning oatmeal into his mouth and talking around it.  Spock’s focus sharpened, though he tried to avoid looking at McCoy’s mouth.  
  
“I was not aware that he was a full member of the Resistance,” said Spock.  
  
McCoy swallowed and squinted.  “What the hell has that got to do with anything?”  
  
“I was led to believe that only full fledged members could undergo missions,” said Spock.  
  
McCoy gave a shrug.  “They needed someone who could fly a plane.  Jim volunteered.”  
  
Spock frowned, still unable to take a bite of his peanut butter toast.  “For what purpose?”  
  
McCoy avoided his gaze, scrubbing at a three days’ of stubble.  “Dunno,” he said.  “Could be any number of reasons.”  
  
“Is it dangerous?”  
  
McCoy placed his spoon inside the bowl.  “Why do you care?” he asked, leaning his elbows on the table.  “Ya’ll weren’t even talking after you got back from yesterday.”  
  
“Any conflict Jim and I might have had does not negate my investment in his well-being,” Spock said stiffly.  “Please answer the question.”  
  
McCoy exhaled.  “Any mission is dangerous,” he said, voice curt.  “But I think Jim’ll probably make it out of this one alive.  Something tells me he’s got some stuff to see to before he dies.”  
  
“Your conjecture does not help,” Spock said, feeling the strongest urge to throw McCoy’s empty breakfast bowl across the room and shatter a mirror or two.  “I need to _know_.”  
  
McCoy leveled a gaze at him.  “Tough,” he said.  “I can’t predict the future.”  
  
“But as a member of the Resistance, surely you are privy to some variety of information,” Spock said, attempting to sound cajoling and coming across more as desperate.  
  
McCoy rolled his eyes.  “Worrying’s not going to help him any, Spock.  Go find something to do before you drive yourself crazy.”  With one last nod to Spock, he rose, picked up his bowl, and strode away.  
  
It was these words that eventually landed Spock in Scott’s lab with a bag of illegal narcotics in one hand and his data pad in the other.  Scott scratched his head.  
  
“You want to analyze what now?” he said.  Spock drew a deep breath and began to launch into the story of how he had come into possession of the drug, but before he could get past Jim becoming aware of the child’s predicament, Scott held up his hand.  “Yes, yes, we heard it all last night, Mr. Spock.  But why do you want to analyze the Dirt at all?  I could probably pull out the specs for you if you want.  Got to have the molecular structure on the ‘net somewhere.  We could go upstairs and have a look.”  
  
“I wish to keep busy,” said Spock.  “This was Jim’s suggested method.”  
  
Scott’s face softened.  “I see,” he said.  He looked around his lab.  “Well, I don’t have much of a chemistry set, but what I do have is yours.”  
  
Spock pursed his lips.  “The powder is fine,” he said.  “If I use x-ray diffraction, I should be able to determine the structure by comparison to other, known materials.  I do not believe I will need much of a,” his mouth twitched upward, “chemistry set.”  He looked down the long line of a table at all the bits and pieces of wiring and old equipment.  “I believe your lab is more than sufficient for my needs.”  
  
“Fantastic,” said Scott.  He made a wide gesture to the mess on the table.  “Have at.”  
  
“My thanks,” Spock said.  
  
Over the course of the following two days, Spock robbed Scott’s lab of a cathode ray tube, several power sources, copper plating, a table, a computer and several other bits and pieces.  He set up his equipment at the far end of the lab.  
  
Scott looked up with alarm as Spock adjusted the filament in the cathode ray tube.  “If you’re going to be generating x-rays all over willy-nilly, add some shielding to your pile,” he requested.  
  
“Of course,” Spock replied.  
  
“Spock’s generating what now?” said Uhura, stepping into the room.  
  
Spock sighed.  “I am applying voltage to accelerate electrons from the filament in the tube.”  
  
She glanced at Scotty, who shrugged a little.  “I don’t think we’re in any danger,” he said.  Then frowned.  “Probably.”  
  
Uhura crossed her arms.  “Spock, you’ve been in here for almost two days straight.  Don’t you need to eat or sleep or something?”  
  
“Vulcans require less sleep than humans,” Spock said, adjusting things so as to later add some shielding around his contraption.  “I request that you not judge my physical well-being by the standards of human physiology.”  
  
Uhura placed her hand across her eyes and shook her head.  “Look, I know you’re worried about Jim, but acting like a manic— _scientist,_ isn’t going to help him.  He’s got a mission to run.  He volunteered for it.  He’s coming back, all right?”  She stepped closer to him.  “All right?” she said, gentler now.  “Come eat something.”  
  
Spock turned stone-faced back to the cathode ray tube.  “Please, Nyota,” he said.  “I would like to continue my work.”  
  
Uhura looked helplessly at Scott, who spread his hands out in a gesture of bewilderment.  She left the room.  
  
McCoy barged in scarcely ten minutes later.  “Okay, listen up,” he said, marching straight over to Spock’s workbench.  
  
Spock barely twitched.  He made a vague hypothesis that he was becoming used to McCoy’s theatrics.  
  
“I said, listen up,” McCoy said again, slamming his hand on Spock’s table.  Spock turned to glower at him as his experiment wobbled.  
  
“Yes, Doctor?”  
  
“I know you’re all pissed off because you and Jim got in a fight and it’s going to be hard to kiss and make up and be best pals again if he ups and dies,” McCoy took a breath while Spock attempted to unravel what it was he had just said.  “But for god’s sake man.  Just go take a fucking nap and eat a sandwich.  You’re making everyone worried.”  
  
With the word ‘kiss’ hanging in the air, Spock’s spine went even more rigid.  He focused resolutely on the bag of Dirt before him.  “I am not tired.”  
  
McCoy came around the worktable and leaned over it so that he was face to face with Spock.  “Let me make this really simple for you.  If you do not get your ass off that chair and out of this lab to go take a nap, then I’ll inject you with something that’ll put you in a coma for a week.”  
  
“You would not dare,” Spock said, eyes narrowing.  
  
McCoy matched him stare for stare.  “I’m pretty sure you know that yeah, actually, I would.  Now go the fuck to bed.”  
  
They glared at each other.  
  
All of a sudden, the lights went out.  “Oh, dearie me,” came Scott’s voice from the dark.  “The electricity appears to have shorted.  How could that have happened?”  
  
Since no one could see his face in the gloom anyway, Spock scowled.  Mr. Scott was not a subtle creature.  “Very well,” he ground out, unwilling to prolong his defeat at the hands of these . . . co-conspirators.  “As the . . . technology appears uncooperative, I will take my leave.”  
  
He could hear McCoy shuffling away from the table.  “So glad to hear it,” he drawled, voice thick with satisfaction as Spock shoved his chair back and stood.  
  
As he stalked out of Scott’s lab, Spock was not in the least bit surprised when the lights mysteriously flickered back on again barely a moment after he was through the doorway.  He could hear Scott’s voice echoing from the tunnel, “And now they’re back.  How very odd,” and pondered the likelihood of spontaneous electrical failure if he should return to the lab immediately.  He made a quick calculation, found the probability too high for his liking, and continued on.  
  
Back in the main room, Spock made a beeline for his bunk, avoiding everyone’s gaze, but especially Uhura’s.  He lay back, folded his hands together atop his stomach, and stared unseeing at the underside of Jim’s bunk.  
  
Jim had been gone for at least 2.21 days.  It could have been more, since Spock was unaware of the exact time Jim had left.  Spock shifted a little.  Jim had left without even speaking to him.  How was he supposed to— was this normal behavior for humans?  To abandon one’s companion without even a farewell?  To go risk one’s life without even a by -your-leave?  
  
Then again, Jim owed no clan allegiance to Spock.  They were not family.  They were— ugh, that word.  Spock unfolded and refolded his hands.  _Friends_.  Yes.  He, Spock of Vulcan, had a _friend_.  A friend who emotionally compromised him.  Sybok would never let him hear the end of this one.  Spock huffed out a dissatisfied breath.  At the rate he was going, he might as well move to Romulus and enlist as a gladiator.  
  
Perhaps friendship could be construed as logical, if viewed in the proper light.  Companionship, closeness, trust – these were necessary for maintaining one’s physical and mental well being, were they not?  Had not Surak himself kept close company with many of his followers and students?  Yet Spock had also been taught that logic was to be strived for, even at the expense of friendship.  A conundrum.  Clearly there was a boundary of sorts.  And just as clearly, Spock had no idea where it was.  
  
Jim was not a logical being.  Likewise, Spock’s attachment to him was not logical in nature.  Over the course of their friendship, this had becom e increasingly clear to Spock.  Jim affected him in ways that his other companions did not.  
  
When his fellow student, T’saya’s, family had moved from Shi’Kahr to T’Paal, Spock had spent perhaps a few days indulging in nostalgia for the times they would visit his home after school, study together, and assist his mother in her garden.  After that, he had accepted her absence.  _Kaiidth_.  
  
In his defense, he had only been eight years old at the time.  
  
T’Saya’s leave -taking had not given him this phantom ache throughout his body, this urge to turn around and say something to Jim, only to recall that he was not there.  T’Saya had not gone without a word.  They had not fought.  
  
They had not kissed.  
  
Spock struggled with the guilt that welled up in him at the thought.  Unknowing, Jim had already kissed him numerous times, grabbing Spock’s hand with little thought.  But when he initiated the action in the human way, only as a desperate gamble, only to save both Spock and himself, Jim had worried first for Spock’s discomfort, not his own.  
  
But that was so like Jim, to do something drastic for Spock’s sake first, and to worry about the consequences later.  
  
Spock resisted the urge to slam his fist into the bed above him.  Who was this human, to make him wrestle with emotions like guilt, fear and doubt, like a being who had never even heard of Surak?  What right had he to delve under Spock’s skin, into the very sanctity of his mind, to make himself at home as if he belonged?  
  
Perhaps the issue was with Spock’s own lack of close, mental relationships.  He had his family bonds, yes, but no bonded mate.  He knew that there had been talk of his marrying T’Pring, daughter of a lesser branch of the House of Skaren.  However, those plans had been abandoned for fear that Spock’s unorthodox bloodline would be brought to the attention of first T’Pring, then to her family, and then to the general populace.  If he had a bond with T’Pring, would he now be so affected by Jim’s offer of friendship?  
  
Such a line of thinking was useless.  He was not bonded.  His thoughts were becoming increasingly circular.  He needed to meditate.  
  
For the first time in a long time, he did not want to.  
  
Instead, he slept.  
  
When Spock awoke, it was to Uhura’s voice near his ear, her face grave.  He sat up, his heart pounding.  
  
“Jim?” he asked.  
  
Uhura blinked, then shook her head.  She gave Spock a strange look.  “Jim’s fine.  The job’s done.  But he can’t come back here.  That stupid shit he pulled the other day got you guys put on some kind of list.  They’re looking for you here.  You’ve got to leave.”  
  
Spock was already slipping on his shoes.  He had not changed into nightclothes the previous evening.  He supposed it did not really matter.  
  
“Where must I go?”  
  
She gnawed on her lower lip.  “We were waiting for Pike— he’s pretty much the guy in charge— but we don’t have time for that.  So, you’re going to him.”  
  
“And where is that?”  
  
She gave him a look he could not decipher.  “Tokyo,” she said finally.  
  
Spock stilled, his left shoe still half off.  “Tokyo is a very dangerous city,” he pointed out.  
  
She crossed her arms.  “I don’t know if we should be flattered or alarmed that the world’s most dangerous city is known even to aliens.”  
  
Spock resumed zipping up his bag.  “If I am discovered by any one of the crime lords operating there, my life is likely forfeit,” he said.  “If the Resistance is discovered to be harboring me, it will most certainly be destroyed.”  
  
“It’s a chance we have to take,” she said.  “Besides, with all the crime there, who’s going to notice a few more criminals?”  
  
Spock paused.  “What is your leader doing in Tokyo?”  
  
Her lips thinned.  “Negotiating,” she spat out.  “Uhura Enterprises isn’t as welcome in Tokyo Bay as most other places in the world.  So Pike’s got a one-on-one with Keiyuu Naganata, who basically owns that part of the city.”  
  
Spock flicked his eyes up to hers.  “And what does Keiyuu Naganata receive in return?”  
  
She stared at him for a moment, then her face flushed.  “We’re not selling you out, if that’s what you’re asking,” she snapped.  “Don’t you trust us?”  
  
“I am merely curious,” Spock said, absolutely no inflection in his voice whatsoever.  
  
She took a deep breath.  “Negotiations are private,” she said.  “Sorry.”  She made to leave Spock to his packing, then turned back.  “The plane’s going to leave in an hour, so better pack quick.”  
  
Spock’s flight to Tokyo was uneventful, mostly in that Jim was not there to play chess with him.  Instead, he sat next to Sulu, who devoted a good portion of the flight to complaining to anyone who would listen.  
  
“I don’t know why I have to go to Tokyo,” he groused.  “I can’t even _speak_ Japanese.”  
  
“But you can understand it,” Chekov pointed out.  
  
“Barely,” Sulu grumbled.  “Mostly just curses and the word for toilet.”  
  
“What’s the word for toilet?” asked McCoy.  
  
“Toilet,” said Sulu.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“More or less.”  
  
“Well that is all that is really important,” Chekov said.  “I do not understand why you are not excited.  I hear Tokyo is a very interesting city.  Chapel— not the nurse, the scary one, her sister— she said that it is now in style for women to paint themselves different colors in the strip clubs.  She said all Tokyo has now red and green and blue dancing women in the clubs.”  He frowned.  “Then she got very angry and left.  I do not think she is a fan.”  
  
Spock, who had been staring out the window at the clouds, turned toward Chekov.  “I beg your pardon?” he said.  
  
“There are two women named Chapel, and they are sisters.”  He nodded to himself.  “But you can tell them apart very easily because one is a commander.  Or was, I guess it is.  She is like you, Mr. Spock, she does not like to show how she is feeling.  And the other is a nurse.  Dr. McCoy knows her, yes?”  
  
“Just because I’m a doctor doesn’t mean I know every nurse,” said McCoy.  A beat.  “But yeah, I know her.  Blonde, right?”  
  
“Red,” said Uhura from across the isle.  She smiled.  “For this week, at least.”  
  
“I would like to hear more of these dancing green women,” said Spock quietly.  
  
“Really?” said McCoy.  
  
“It seems a peculiar custom,” Spock said, over the sounds of McCoy being delighted by Spock’s apparent hedonistic streak.  
  
Chekov moved his shoulders up and down.  He glanced at Sulu for assistance.  “Tokyo is . . . I do not know how to explain.”  
  
“Weird,” Sulu put in.  “The word you’re looking for is weird.”  
  
Spock folded his fingers together atop his lap and waited.  
  
Chekov shook his head.  “I do not know how to describe it.”  
  
“Fashion,” Sulu put in.  “Games, technology, trends.  Honestly, the body paint thing is kind of tame by comparison.”  
  
“I see,” said Spock, relaxing back into his seat.  For a moment he had thought— but no.  “Would you be able to give me an example?”  
  
Chekov tapped his fingers on his seatback tray.  “Um,” he said, screwing up his face.  “It is hard to think of something good just now.”  
  
“Carrying small dogs in purses!” Sulu exclaimed.  He crossed his arms and sat back with a wriggle of triumph.  Chekov gave him a despairing look.  
  
“That was an American fashion,” he said.  
  
Sulu frowned.  “Are you sure?”  
  
“Of course I am sure,” Chekov asserted.  
  
“I don’t believe you.  I’m going to look that up.”  
  
“How do you even know that?” McCoy shook his head.  “No, scratch that.  _Why_ do you even know that?”  
  
Chekov shrugged.  “When you are very good at something – like me, I am very good with numbers – people think you are only good for that thing.  They do not get that you might have other interests.”  
  
“And your other interest is fashion,” said McCoy, bemused.  
  
Chekov smiled, his white teeth gleaming.  “I do not know why.  But it is interesting, what people wear and do, and what they wore and did.  Very psychological.”  
  
Sulu swore, tossing his data pad aside.  “American,” he grumbled.  
  
“See?” said Chekov, his voice edging on smug.  
  
Spock turned back to the window.  
  
Unlike their landing in Edinburgh, which had been fraught with clandestine doings, the plane landed in broad daylight at a public airport.  Spock jammed his hat over his head with a sigh as he prepared to disembark.  
  
“You are not concerned with being here illegally?” he asked Chekov, recalling the young human’s reluctance to land in Edinburgh.  
  
“Oh no,” said Chekov.  “I have been here before.  They do not care, as long as you can present the face of legality.”  He nodded to Uhura, who was passing out some semblance of passports.  “They say who we say we are, but also when the machine reads them, they will say who we are expected by.”  He twisted his finger in his ear.  “That is, Keiyuu Naganata.  So we will get into the city, no trouble.”  
  
“Fascinating,” said Spock, and meant it.  Vulcan had rather a lack of criminally dominated societies.  It would be interesting to see how the social order here was kept.  
  
Having become somewhat used to traveling with the luxuries afforded by Uhura Enterprises, Spock was not startled to see a well-put together man bow to them all upon exiting the airport and then usher them towards a large black vehicle.  When he got closer however, he noticed that the car was missing the typical emblem of Uhura’s family – that of a stylized Roman U and E entwined with a ship’s mast – and instead pictured the snarling head of a bulldog.  
  
“Keiyuu Naganata’s got a ride for us,” Uhura breathed into his ear, her lips barely moving.  “Don’t talk too much, they don’t know who you are.”  
  
Spock gave her a sidelong look, but nodded anyway.  
  
Despite growing up in the largest metropolis on Vulcan, Spock was unprepared for the sheer size of the city.  As they drove from the airport, skyscraper upon skyscraper formed the trees of a concrete and glass forest through which the main road and all the little side roads travelled.  There were lights and movement everywhere, all moving together with the kind of chaotic pulse one might expect of from an inter-dimensional being.  He could not count the people and the flashes of color, for fear of incipient blindness.  
  
Spock shut his eyes and breathed deeply, willing his mind to process what it could and to discard what it could not.    He was only marginally successful.  
  
“What do you think of our city?” said the man who had led them to the car.  His black hair was cropped short, but he kept his mustache to a good length.  
  
Spock knew he was supposed to speak as little as possible, but he could not very well ignore a direct question.  He tilted his head to the side, weighing his words with care.  “I have never visited before,” he said after a second or two.  “But it appears very busy.”  
  
The man gave him a measuring look, then sat back with a smile.  “Yes, it is a very busy place,” he said.  “Very busy, awake all of the time.”  
  
“Indeed,” said Spock.  
  
After three hours of driving, they parked outside one of the many skyscrapers.  “Mr. Naganata hopes you will find the accommodation to your liking,” said the man to Uhura, as they entered the lobby of the building.  
  
Uhura let her gaze travel around the inside of what was clearly a very lavishly appointed hotel.  It settled on the fountain in the corner, and the set of couches next to it.  She looked back at him.  
  
“Yes, I believe this will suffice.  Give Mr. Naganata our gratitude.”  
  
The man laughed.  “Your man Pike, he said you have very good taste, Ms. Uhura.  I will tell Mr. Naganata that you are pleased with his selection.  Mr. Naganata will always keep his friends happy.”  
  
“Of course,” Uhura said pleasantly, at which Spock had to consciously keep his eyebrow from rising.  They bowed to each other one last time until, with a final wave, the man left.  
  
“We’re free to move around as we please,” Uhura told the rest of them as they gathered around her, as if in solidarity.  Something about staying in a hotel owned by one of the most powerful crime bosses in the city set off that reaction in people, Spock supposed.  “Within reason, of course.”  She looked at Spock, propping her hands on her hips.  “It’s good your hair has grown,” she said cryptically.  
  
This time, Spock did raise his eyebrow.  
  
“It’s rude to wear hats indoors,” Uhura said.  “This is a very polite country.”  
  
“I . . . see,” Spock said slowly.  His hand inched toward his hat.  
  
“Bandanas should be okay though,” she said.  
  
Spock dropped his hand.  “I see,” he said again, this time with considerably less enthusiasm.  Behind him, he could have sworn he heard McCoy cackle a little.  
  
“I brought some barrettes,” McCoy said.  “To help you keep it on straight.”  
  
“Thank you,” replied Spock automatically, not sure what a barrette was, but more certain that he could not trust McCoy’s sudden altruism.  
  
As it turned out, they each had their own room on the 5 th floor.  Pleading a need to meditate, Spock excused himself from the dinner plans for that evening, and headed to room 526.  Although he didn't really need to meditate, the constant company of the humans who had become his companions was beginning to wear on him.  He needed some time to think.  He needed some time alone.  He slid the keycard into the door.  The light blinked green and Spock opened it as he had been taught.  
  
There was someone else in the room.  Spock froze, and the figure moved into the light.  Spock stared.  
  
The left side of the man’s face was hideously scarred, with deep gouges down from the corner of his eye to the edge of his jaw.  His right side appeared handsome and middle aged.  His grey eyes met Spock’s startled brown ones.  He was sitting in a wheelchair.  
  
“Well, close the door,” he said.  “You’re letting in a draft.”  
  
Spock did so.  “You are Christopher Pike,” he said slowly, still not moving from his place beside the door, but fairly confident in his assessment.  
  
Pike laughed, a jagged thing that turned into a cough.  “Got it in one,” he said.  “Kirk said you were smart.”  He shook his head indulgently.  “Said a lot more than that, actually, but I boiled it down to the basics.  How did you know?”  
  
“Mr. Scott had a photograph,” said Spock.  Of course, Pike had looked quite different in it, his arm thrown around Scotty’s shoulder, his face unscarred, but still.  It was the same face.  
  
Pike frowned.  “I told him to get rid of that.  The whole world’s going to know we’re related at this rate.”  
  
“Related?”  
  
“Second cousins,” said Pike.  He bared his teeth.  “As you can see, Montgomery got the good-looking genes.”  
  
“Interesting,” said Spock neutrally.  He shifted a little from foot to foot.  “Is there something I can do for you?”  
  
“Come, sit down,” Pike said, motioning to one of the armchairs.  With a mental shrug, Spock did so.  He recalled his mother telling him that her culture approved of direct eye contact.  That they saw it as a sign of courage, and of fearlessness.  This was different from Vulcans, who believed that direct eye contact between strangers often signified aggression, and a desire to peek into a mind not open to them.  
  
Spock looked straight at Pike, expression as Vulcan blank has possible.  “Is there something I may do for you?” he said again.  
  
“Direct,” said Pike, nodding.  “Kirk mentioned that too.  I appreciate directness in a man.”  
  
“I am not a man,” said Spock.  “I am a Vulcan.”  
  
“You must be fairly confident that these rooms are not being watched, to state your origins so boldly,” Pike said softly.  
  
“I located and disabled the bugs by accessing the mainframe computer network of this building,” Spock said with something almost bordering on arrogance.  
  
Pike coughed.  “So you are indeed a Vulcan.  With access to technology far superior than our own.”  
  
There was no point in lying.  “Yes.”  
  
“You know what I am here to ask.”  
  
Spock considered this.  “Probably.  You want to know if my Vulcan technology may be used to further your cause.”  
  
“Close,” Pike said.  “But I talked with Scott.  I know that if you wouldn’t give it up to the Bureau, then there’s no way you’d give it up to me.”  His expression turned wry.  “Not to mention I’d have to start fearing assassination from my own men, if I did something like that to you.”  
  
“I see,” said Spock.  
  
Pike leaned forward on his elbows.  “Do you want to know what happened to my face?”  
  
Spock blinked, startled.  “I had not thought to ask.”  
  
“I was in a war,” said Pike.  “I was an Admiral.”  He looked away.  “We were bombed by some planes.  Nothing too out of the usual.  You know.”  His lips cracked in a grimace.  “The price of war.  But after we got fished out of the water by the enemy troops, they put us in camps.  And I was tortured of course, because those are the way things are.  Our standard, _human_ mode of operations.”  He looked at Spock.  “I’m sure you know all about that.”  
  
Spock could do nothing but nod.  He knew.  
  
“So anyway, eventually we were traded out.  I was a cripple, I didn’t know anything useful.”  He smiled.  “Well, nothing I gave away.”  Then his face hardened.  “I want to repeat that, Mr. Spock.  I gave nothing away.  I was loyal.”  
  
“And yet you are here, leading the Resistance,” said Spock.  
  
“Well, as it turns out,” said Pike, waving his hand.  “All that— the bombing, the deaths of my men, the torture.  That was all supposed to happen.  My government arranged it to happen, because they got something— some secrets, probably— out of the deal.”  
  
“You were bait,” said Spock, clamping down firmly on any emotion.  He could sense where this was going.  “A sacrifice.”  
  
“Like a pawn in a chess game played by psychopaths,” agreed Pike.  “Or maybe a rook.  I was, after all, an Admiral.”  
  
“So as a result of your own betrayal you joined the Resistance,” surmised Spock, not all that surprised.  “That is a very human course of action.”  
  
“Would a Vulcan have done any different?”  
  
Spock thought for a moment.  “A Vulcan of the past would not have,” he allowed.  “But a Vulcan of today?  We are a race of pacifists, Mr. Pike.  I do not know what a Vulcan would have done, I cannot speak for all of my people, but they would have chosen the logical path.”  
  
“And what if the logical path and the right path are not the same?”  
  
“Then they are not,” said Spock, not really wanting to go any further on that particular line of thought.  
  
“Sounds complicated,” said Pike.  
  
Spock gave out something that might have been a sigh.  “It is not supposed to be,” he said, almost petulantly.  
  
Pike looked amused.  “Are our human ways corrupting you?  It must be tough, being with us all the time.”  
  
“It is a unique experience,” said Spock.  He fixed Pike with a serious eye.  “But I sense that you have a request of me.”  
  
“Not really a request,” said Pike.  “More of a general question.”  
  
“Ask.  I will not lie.”  
  
Pike squared his shoulders.  “Will Vulcan come here to help us?”  
  
Spock stilled.  “I will need for you to clarify the question,” he said eventually.  
  
Pike drew in a breath.  “You’ve seen our planet.  Humanity’s problems have problems.  We’re ruled by despots and criminals.  Basic freedom is a joke.  Our armies sacrifice soldiers without any need.  There is little compassion.  Instead, there is hunger and fighting.  We need someone to help dig us out of this pit.  Would Vulcan be willing?”  
  
Spock was silent for a long moment.  “The High Command operates under a series of laws.  Some govern the society within Vulcan and others deal with Vulcan’s relationship with other planets.  Earth is yet incapable of warp speed.  Our prime directive therefore requires non-interference with your planet.”  His eyes met Pike’s.  “I’m sorry, such action on our part would be tantamount to invasion.  Other planets would protest our actions.  It could become a great crisis.”  
  
Pike nodded, looking resigned.  “I thought you would say that.”  He rotated his left shoulder.  “Still, I thought I would ask.  No harm in trying.”  
  
Spock waited.  
  
“So if you’re not here to gently guide us to a better life, then what are you doing on Earth?”  
  
Spock had thought about this beforehand, although he had not anticipated again being asked the question so directly.  “Research,” he said.  “Although we cannot interfere in the affairs of non-warp capable peoples, we can at least study them, to project when a society might develop such technology.”  
  
“Huh,” said Pike.  “So, any idea when we’ll get to the stars?  Because I’ve got to tell you, our space programs are for shit.  The last big mission was more than thirty years ago to Europa.  And no one ever heard from them again.”  
  
Spock valiantly forced himself not to react.  “Indeed,” he said instead.  “I will— I will need to research further.”  
  
“Uh huh,” said Pike.  “Well, I have a meeting with Mr. Naganata in twenty minutes, so I suppose I should leave you to your rest.”  He inclined his head to Spock, the light from outside casting a shadow on the ruined side of his face, giving him the illusion of a hale man in his mid-forties.  “It was very interesting to meet you.  I’m glad we didn’t let the Bureau kill you.”  
  
“Likewise,” said Spock, not wanting to explore that line of thought any further.  He stood to open the door for Pike, who nodded his thanks.  About to close the door, he hesitated, thinking furiously.  “Mr. Pike!” he called down the hall.  
  
Pike slowed to a stop, turning the chair back to face Spock.  “Yes?”  
  
Spock strode quickly over to him.  “I owe your people somewhat of a life debt,” he said.  
  
“You don’t owe us anything,” said Pike.  “You didn’t ask Kirk to come get you.”  
  
“Nonetheless,” said Spock.  “It is the Vulcan way.”  
  
“Okay,” said Pike.  “So, why are you telling me this now?”  
  
Spock leaned in closer.  “The laws of the High Command dictate non-interference,” he said.  “But even in coming here, I have interfered much.  Set certain events in motion.  I—” he forced himself to speak clearly.  “I cannot promise anything,” he said.  “But out of respect for what you have done for me, I will send a message.”  He looked directly at Pike.  “I will entreat the Vulcan High Command on your behalf.”  
  
Pike looked taken aback.  “You will . . . send a message,” he repeated.  “With my request.”  
  
“Yes,” said Spock, a bold sense of daring jolting through him at his own voice.  “It is unorthodox, but I shall ask anyway.”  
  
Pike gave him a long, searching look.  “All right,” he said finally.  “That's all I can ask of you.  My thanks.”  
  
“I am simply returning a favor,” Spock said.  Pike nodded, swiveled his chair back around and pressed a button.  It moved forward with a gentle whine.   Spock watched him leave, and then turned to head back toward his room and his data pad.  
  
If he was planning to speak to the VSS _Nirak_ , he was going to need some equipment.  
  
According to the map on his data pad, the closest store to the hotel that sold technological hardware was almost four kilometers away.  Spock stood in the center of his room, considering his options.  He did not want to bother the others.  He had been given enough local currency to ensure his ability to purchase the items required.  With a decisive flick of the wrist, he packed his data pad into a small backpack, and swung it over his shoulder.  He adjusted his hat so that it sat snugly over his ears, and fussed with his hair so that it covered his eyebrows.  He gave himself one last, critically appraising look in the mirror, and determined his appearance acceptably human.  
  
The walk to the store took less than an hour, but the constant noise of people and machines made it feel twice as long.  It was with a great deal of relief that Spock entered his intended destination, and leaned against the wall with a barely concealed groan.  
  
Humans, and all their unshielded, broadcasting emotions, were exhausting.  He should have gone to Ferenginar instead.  At least the Ferengi were _actually_ psi null.  
  
The man at the counter gave Spock a peculiar look, and he straightened, attempting to pull himself together.  After a moment or two of waiting for the pounding in his head to cease, he surveyed the store.  
  
With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Spock noticed that the description for nearly every item was written across the packages or boxes or baskets in an unknown script.  He rubbed his hand across his face, and began to regret his decision to come alone.  
  
The man at the counter was watching him with beady eyes, as if expecting Spock to make a grab for the nearest valuable and run for it.  Of course, considering the level of crime rampant throughout the city, Spock couldn’t really blame him.  To ease the man’s concern, Spock picked up a basket and began wandering through the aisles, picking up items he hoped were the correct ones.  Radio technology had been on earth for hundreds of years, and the technology to boost such a signal had existed here for only a slightly smaller amount of time.  He was fairly confident he would be able to reach the VSS _Nirak_.  
  
Spock paid for his goods with paper money and coins, grateful that he had taken a moment beforehand to organize his currency.  That done, he prepared to head back to the hotel.  
  
He had only walked one kilometer, taking a slightly different route, when an advertisement tacked to the wall of a club, caught his eye.  He peered at it.  It featured a green skinned woman hanging off a pole.  Her clothes were more suggestion than reality.  Her dark hair was loosely curled and hung just above her breasts.  Spock cocked his head.  This must be what Chekov had been talking about earlier.  He looked closer at the picture.  The woman was definitely human.  Although the uneducated might mistake her for an Orion, there were slight differences in bone structure and in stance that were readily apparent in her undressed state.  What’s more, Spock could even see where she had neglected to paint the bottoms of her bare feet.  
  
Of course, the easiest method to tell an Orion woman from a human who, for some odd reason, had painted her entire body, was to be in the presence of one or the other.  Pheromones were suppressible, but not completely.  A Vulcan might not be affected by Orion pheromones, but that did not mean they could not smell them.  
  
Spock walked on.  
  
He reached the hotel mere minutes before the sun sank below the horizon.  Upon entering his room, he dumped his bag of supplies on the desk, sat down before them, and prepared to build a simple radio.  
  
 An hour later, Spock examined his creation with a critical eye.  Primitive, but it would have to do.  He flipped a switch, and the sounds of static filled the room as he attempted to reach the channel that Captain T’Lan had indicated that they would be monitoring.  
  
“This is S’chin T’gai Spock of the Vulcan Science Academy,” he said.  “Requesting contact with Vulcan Space Ship _Nirak_.”  
  
Static.  
  
“Vulcan Space Ship _Nirak_ , are you receiving my transmission?”  
  
Still, nothing.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
There was still no answer.  Spock looked at his radio in perplexity.  Perhaps he had mistaken the channel?  He tried a second channel, and then a third.  Still the _Nirak_ did not respond to his hails.  Spock flicked the switch off, and rested his chin in his hands.  
  
It was possible that the ship was still too far away to pick up his transmission, even with the boosting equipment.  It was also possible that he had mistaken some of the components for the wrong pieces.  Spock pursed his lips; although if that had been the case, the radio should not have worked at all, and he was relatively certain that it had.  Nonetheless, it seemed prudent that he return to the store.  
  
Spock checked the time on his communicator.  His eyebrows rose to his hairline as he noticed that he had received a message from Mr. Scott less than an hour ago.  He opened it.  
  
 _Morning, Mr. Spock!_  
  
Spock looked askew at the device, before recalling the time difference between their respective locations.  
  
 _I ran your Dirt samples through the XRD you built.  Nice work on that, by the way.  I might have to keep it.  Anyway, I thought I’d send you the specs since you seemed so interested.  Have fun!_  
  
The message indicated an attachment.  
  
Spock’s finger hovered over the link for a moment, before he put his communicator away with a twinge of regret.  There would be plenty of time for frivolities after he achieved contact with Captain T’Lan and the _Nirak_.  For now, he had a store to return to.  
  
As he walked, Spock began to feel the strangest feeling between his shoulder blades, a tingling sensation, as if he were being watched.  When he craned his neck back in the gloom however, he could see nothing.  He attempted to send his mental presence behind him in search of whatever was making him so wary, but the concentration required and the continual bombardment on his own shields by the endless moving bodies around him, gave him a headache.  
  
When he finally reached the store, the door was locked and the windows barred.  Spock’s shoulders slumped.  How could he have neglected to note the closing time of the store?  What was the point of an eidetic memory if you still forgot crucial information?  
  
Linking his hands behind his back, Spock allowed for one disdainful Vulcan sniff at the locked door before turning away and once more beginning the return journey back to the hotel.  
  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Jim reached the hotel about an hour before sundown, he gratefully assumed that Spock was with the rest of the Resistance members in Tokyo, eating dinner.  So he was understandably surprised when, glancing out his 5th floor window later that evening, he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure lit by a street lamp.

What was Spock doing outside alone?  Where was he going in such a hurry?  Jim drummed his fingers on the windowsill.  He had managed to avoid Spock so far today, and what could he possibly say to him now?

_Hey, I saw you sneaking out after dark and wanted to know what the hell you think you’re doing_ seemed in poor taste after the way they had parted.

Still, Tokyo was a dangerous city.  And while Jim had learned that Spock could definitely handle himself, it just didn’t seem right to let him disappear into the dark alone like that.  Didn’t Vulcans believe in the buddy system?

His mind suddenly made up, Jim hurried down to the first floor lobby and out the door, half jogging in the direction Spock had been heading towards.

Jim caught sight of him a few minutes later.  As Spock strode down the main sidewalks, Jim slunk his way through the shadows about half a block behind him.  He supposed he could have easily caught up to him fully, and asked where he was going, but something held Jim back.  He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but a nagging part of him gave off the sense that he just didn’t know what he should say when they did meet.

Yeah, Spock had been kind of an asshole after the whole kissing thing, but Jim had kind of been one too.  Also, he had left without saying goodbye, which he supposed sort of made him the bad guy at this point.

Jim leaned against a wall and examined his fingernails while he waited for Spock to just accept that the store he was standing in front of, for whatever reason, was definitely closed for the night.

Would a simple _I’m sorry_ do the trick?  Or would he have to go more in depth?  Spock wasn’t the biggest fan of emotional displays, so anything involving passionate discussions of their feelings (his on being an asshole, Spock’s on . . . actually, he had no idea) were definitely out.

Maybe Spock would just do that telepathy thing, and neither of them would have to go through any awkward explanations at all?  His countenance brightened, and he filed that thought away for later use.  

Spock had clearly abandoned the idea of getting into the store at this point.  Looking rather dejected (for Spock, at least), he had turned around and begun to head back towards the direction of the hotel, when he suddenly stopped.  Jim ducked behind a conveniently placed vending machine.   He caught his breath, then peered around the corner of the machine, and stared.

What was Spock— was he sniffing at the air?  No, that couldn’t be it.  He was looking pretty confused, for one thing.

Jim was about to take a step forward when Spock made a sudden and abrupt ninety-degree pivot, and strode off in a completely new direction, face set in a wary expression that Jim had never seen before.  Cursing a little, Jim set off after him.


	13. Let your Spirit Fly II

Thanks to Kupo for the edits!

**Let your Spirit Fly II**  
  
Spock smelled it first.  When he did, his primary thought was that he had been mistaken.  Surely he had already deduced that. But no, there was no mistaking that scent.  When he strained his ears just so, he could hear it too—that slow, whining music.  
  
He changed direction, took five quick steps, and vanished around the corner.   
  
He stopped.  Yes, there she was.  
  
She stood at the back entrance to a club, leaning casually against the side.  She had a short white stick in-between her lips and when she removed it, a trail of smoke blew from her mouth.  A cigarette, Spock remembered Jim calling it.  She must have been perspiring heavily from dancing, for her pheromones to make their way over the wind to him.  Or perhaps she was wearing a perfume that mimicked the scent.  Regardless, he stood stock still, mind whirring.   
  
An Orion woman.   
  
He could not think of a single, acceptable explanation for the presence of an Orion woman on a pre-warp planet.  A multitude of seemingly unconnected oddities began to clamor in his memory: the casual chaos, the stagnation of technological and social progress, the endless war—for profit?  Or for something else?  He did not know.  Orions could be subtle, insidious, clever.   
  
According to his mother, humans were notorious for their dislike of the Other.  To conquer Earth in any sense of the word, without raising an intergalactic fuss, therefore required certain finesse.  It required humans to be unaware of their conquerors.  It required for them to fight each other, rather than focusing on a common enemy.  His jaw worked.   
  
But why were they here?  What had brought them to his mother’s vibrant birth world?  
  
There was only one way to find out.  
  
Spock stepped out of the shadow of the building, waiting for the woman to notice him.  He did not have to wait long.  At the noise of his boots scraping across the sidewalk, her eyes flickered up to him, tensing.  She relaxed when she saw that he was alone and, apparently unarmed.  She said something to him in the regional dialect.  Spock shook his head, and moved closer.  
  
“A foreigner, huh?” she said, this time speaking English.  “What do you want?  I’m off for the night.”  She snuffed out the cigarette against a brick wall.  “The rest of the show’s inside.”  She jerked her head to indicate the front entrance of the building.  
  
“I am not interested in the show,” Spock said, very quietly.  
  
Her eyes narrowed.  “If you think you’re getting any, you’re sadly mistaken.  Now, fuck off.”  
  
In response, Spock pulled off his hat and swept back his hair to reveal his features.  “I am not interested in the show,” he repeated, voice harder.  
  
There was a very long silence in which her gaze traveled over the clearly pointed tips of his ears, and up towards his eyebrows.  
  
“A Vulcan,” she said, as if she could not quite believe what she was seeing.  
  
“Obviously,” returned Spock.  If possible, his back became even straighter.  He looked down his nose at her.  “The Vulcan High Command would very much like to know what an Orion woman is doing on a pre-warp planet within the Vulcan sphere of influence.”  
  
“The Vulcan High Command might very much like to know,” she mocked, “But they’re very much not going to find out if they’re stupid enough to only send one little soldier.”  
  
Spock did not move, although he did replace his hat.  “I have unfinished business on this planet,” he said.  “I trust your associates will recall that any action against me will be construed as an act of war.”  
  
She rolled her eyes.  “The whole of the Orion System knows how touchy Vulcans are.”  She smirked at him.   
  
“I do not trust you,” said Spock bluntly.  
  
She placed her hands on her hips.  “You’d be an idiot if you did.  I’m pretty sure that’s illegal on Vulcan.”  She bared her teeth in a laugh.  “Along with anything else fun.”  
  
“I have sent a signal to my ship,” Spock said.  “If I go missing, they will know.”  
  
She moved in closer to him, until they stood nearly chest-to-chest.  She jabbed a finger at his face.  “Are you threatening me?”  
  
“I am stating a fact,” Spock said.  “Nothing more.”  He shifted his weight slightly, quite cognizant of the fact that it was his back to the street, and not hers, and that she likely had allies lurking nearby.   
  
She spat on the ground.  “You won’t get anything from me.  I’m not stupid.”  
  
“Why are you here?”  
  
She indicated the club behind her with her elbow.  “I work here.”  
  
Spock narrowed his eyes.  “The Command will hear of this.”  
  
“Oh no,” she said, deadpan.  “The Vulcan High Command.  We'll all just pack up and leave then.”  
  
“Yes,” said Spock.  “You should.”  
  
She reached up and patted his shoulder.  Spock went rigid.  “Well, when the Vulcan High Command shows up with an eviction notice, we’ll be sure to clear out right away.”   
  
“The High Command would never deliver such a high-handed edict.”  He waited a beat.  “Our ally, the Romulan Empire, of course has no such qualms.”  Looking at her very calmly he said, “I understand that the last time Romulus and Orion were involved in an engagement, Orion came out the worse for it.  It would be a shame for history to repeat itself in such a way.”  
  
She glared at him.  “Good luck trying to contact your precious Councilors,” she said, voice sharp, “Or your ship.  No sub-space transmission leaves this planet without our permission.”  She lifted her chin.  “Not that there’s anyone waiting around to receive it.”  
  
Spock’s blood suddenly felt like ice in his veins.  “What do you mean?”  
  
She shrugged.  “Since you can’t talk to them and I’m not talking, it’s just going to have to remain a mystery, isn’t it?”  She reached out her hand and rested it on the handle of the door.  “Aren’t you Vulcans all about mysteries?”  
  
Spock placed his own palm on the door, effectively preventing her from opening it.  “What have you done to the VSS _Nirak_?”  
  
“Back off, Vulcan,” she snapped.  “I’m not the one you should be asking about your precious ship.”  
  
“Tell me,” Spock demanded.  
  
She grinned.  “You want to know?  You’ll have to make a deal with them that are in the know.”  She nodded toward the club.  “But I guarantee you that without us, you’re never getting off this planet.”  She pulled ineffectually at the door, then glowered at Spock.  “Let me pass, Vulcan.”  
  
Spock released his hold, and she opened the door quickly, slipping inside.  
  
She stopped.  “We’ll be waiting for you,” she said over her shoulder before disappearing into the heaviness of the music and the gloom.  “Try not to live up to the expectations of your race and be a disappointment, hmm?”  
  
After she had gone, Spock stood very still, his breathing harsh in the cooling night air.  He clenched and unclenched his fists, his face still miraculously expressionless.   
  
In the corner on the other side of the building, where he had been unashamedly eavesdropping on the entire conversation, the lines on Jim’s forehead creased.   
  
What the hell had all that been about?  Were there more aliens on Earth?  The woman had looked pretty human to him, except for being green.  Which, honestly?  Not exactly the weirdest thing that could be spotted on the streets of Tokyo.  And why had Spock been trying to contact his ship anyway?  He’d never said anything about a ship before.  
  
Lit partially by the streetlight outside, Spock exhaled, then turned on his heel, preparing to head back in the direction he had arrived.  After a moment or two of waiting for him to get a head start, Jim began to slip out of his hiding place, careful not to knock into the garbage can next to him.    
  
He froze at the sudden, vice-like grip at the back of his neck.  
  
“Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s rude to listen to other people’s conversations?” came a hiss and then there was a sharp jab at his collar, into the muscle right above the bone.  He tried to struggle, to call out to Spock, but he found that his legs didn’t seem to work.  His vocal chords were likewise useless.   
  
“Humans,” the voice said, sounding both close and very far away.  “You never cease to amuse.”  
  
Jim slumped to the ground.  
  
_______________________________________________________  
  
As Spock reached the entrance to the hotel, he slowed.  What, if anything, should he tell the others?  He did not know anything definitive, with the exception that there was some Orion presence on Earth.  As to why, and how much of one, he had merely conjecture.  Would the Resistance even understand the significance of such a presence?  They had no experience with interplanetary politics, or other species.  They might be dismissive, or they might act rashly, prematurely, before the facts were properly accounted for.  
  
If Jim were here, would he tell him?  He had already broken Jim’s trust once, by not informing him of his Vulcan nature.  Would failing to speak to him regarding the Orion woman likewise be seen as a betrayal?  
  
He did not know.   The social code between humans was confusing, and rife with exceptions and conflicts.  He had no wish to betray Jim, yet he did not know if he should approach him in this.  
  
Inside the hotel lobby, Spock caught the eye of the receptionist, who quickly looked down at her desk.  He tugged at his hat, making sure it was secure, before heading to the elevator and back to his room.  Once there, he sat on the bed, the lights still off, thinking.  
  
He would wait, he decided.  He would wait for Jim and, if he explained his concerns to Jim, then together they would inform the rest of the Resistance.  He began to remove his boots, massaging his feet.  This new human footwear pinched at his toes; he suspected that the bone structure of his feet was just slightly out of alignment with the human norm.  Not enough to be noticeable by any means of course, just enough to irritate.  When he returned to Vulcan—  
  
The corners of his mouth pinched.  Had the Orion woman been speaking the truth?  If something had happened to the _Nirak_ , then he was effectively stranded here.  Given time and equipment, he might be able to build some sort of subspace radio, but reaching the Vulcan High Command, if the signal was indeed being blocked, would be well nigh impossible.  Attempting to build his own warp-capable ship was also probably not an option.  For one, while he understood the workings of a warp core on a theoretical basis, he was not an engineer in the true sense.  For another, dilithium crystals were probably very difficult to come by on Earth.   
  
Spock moved his boots to the floor by the side of the bed, and leaned back, flicking the bedside lamp on as he did so.  With the VSS _Nirak_ potentially compromised, and communications with anyone but the Orions down, he seemed to have two main options.  The first was to make a deal with the Orions.  The second was to wait for rescue.  He grimaced in distaste.  Neither prospect was particularly appealing.  
  
Displeased, Spock fished his data pad out of his bag and turned it on.  He had already arrived at a decision regarding his Orion encounter.  All he could do now was wait to speak to Jim.  As he did not yet know Jim’s location, or when he would arrive, in the meantime he figured he might as well take a look at what Mr. Scott had sent him.  Although he was loath to admit it, he was rather curious.  
  
Spock spent a large portion of the night with the data.  Mr. Scott had already run the raw results through a series of programs designed to compare the X-Ray diffraction patterns of the gold dirt to other, known mineral and chemical structures.  As far as he could tell, the drug was a fairly basic one.  The most interesting and, Spock suspected, the crucial component of the brownish yellow crystals, came from the bonding of a purified alkaloid with an organic acid.  Mr. Scott had also noted that when the crystals were exposed to water, they began to break down, the water and the constituents of the crystals forming an unusually flammable and viscous substance.  When the crystals were kept dry and powdered however, they could be smoked, which was how the drug was typically utilized.  
  
He frowned a bit at the screen, tapping his fingers together.  But what had the gold dirt been purified from in the first place?  The chemical structure did not seem quite— he winced a little even as the word formed in his mind — _organized_ enough to have been synthesized in a lab.  Logically therefore, it could have been derived from a naturally occurring source, like a plant or an animal.  Possibly even a mineral, although that seemed rather dubious.   
  
Nonetheless, intriguing.  
  
The small clock on his bedside table blinked at him, the red numbers shifting to read 3:00 AM.  He put aside his data pad.  The day had been trying.  He needed to sleep.  
  
When he awoke, Jim was apparently still gone.  Spock wandered down to the dining hall offset from the lobby, entertaining himself while attempting to parse which foods he could eat, and which he could not.  He settled on a white grain and some sort of soup and watched as, with varying degrees of wakefulness, the rest of his human companions gradually arrived.   
  
McCoy, he noticed, steered very clear of the white grains and soup, and came to his table with eggs, toast, and black coffee.  
  
“Morning,” he said, voice gruff.   
  
“Good morning,” Spock replied, sipping at his tea.  
  
“Missed a good time last night,” said McCoy.  He stabbed at his eggs with a great deal of enthusiasm, then brought the fork to his mouth.  “Mmm,” he said, swallowing.  “This place is _nice_.  We should make deals with gangsters more often.”  
  
Spock did not even want to begin to enter that conversation.   
  
McCoy pointed at Spock’s breakfast.  “Aren’t you going to eat any of that?”  
  
Spock looked down.  He had somehow missed seeing the implements he was familiar with, and so had been attempting to watch other diners out of the corner of his eye as they navigated their food with two long sticks.   
  
“I did not get a fork or spoon,” he said.  He half stood to do just that, when McCoy waved him back down again.   
  
“Like this,” he said, grabbing Spock’s chopsticks.  He placed one between two fingers and thumb, and the other on top of it, opening and closing in a pinching motion.  “See?”   
  
He returned them to Spock, who attempted with only marginally more success.   
  
“Okay, never mind.   Put the damn things away and you can have my spoon,” McCoy said after another minute of watching Spock attempt to eat his rice with the grace of a two year old.  He slid the spoon across the table, and Spock picked it up.   
  
“Thank you, doctor,” he said, beginning to spoon his cooled soup.  
  
“What do Vu—” he caught himself, looking around at the other hotel patrons.  “What do you guys eat with, usually?”  
  
Spock took another sip of his soup.  “We utilize an implement similar to the spoon, as well as a knife for cutting.  For foods that must be picked up, we use . . .” his mouth wrinkled in thought.  “Tongs?  Yes, something similar to what you call tongs.”  
  
“No fork?” asked McCoy.  
  
“No,” said Spock.  “It is considered barbaric to stab one’s food.”  He watched McCoy pick up a slice of toast, and then added; “It is also considered uncouth to eat with one’s hands.”  
  
“Sounds complicated,” said McCoy, chewing loudly.  
  
“It is not,” said Spock.  “We do not have larger and smaller spoons for each dish, and multiple sets of tongs.  There is only one of each.”  
  
McCoy actually laughed out loud at that, drawing a few looks of censure from the others breaking their fast.  “Point taken,” he said.  “You ever seen the setup for a formal dining hall?  It’s a nightmare.”  
  
“Yes,” said Spock.  “Here.  Yesterday evening.”  
  
McCoy shook his head and ate the last few bites of buttery toast, licking his fingers.  “You didn’t even come eat with us.  Were you waiting for Jim or something?”  
  
Spock’s knuckles tightened as he gripped his spoon.  “I was not,” he said.  Voice very neutral he continued, “When is Jim expected to arrive?”  
  
McCoy gave him a look from beneath his bushy eyebrows.  “Supposed to come in sometime last night, from what Pike told me.  You didn’t see him?”  
  
Spock felt suddenly distant from the entire scene.  Jim had arrived last night?  And he had not even wished to speak to Spock— no, had not wished to even inform Spock of his presence?  “No,” he answered vaguely, “I did not.”  If Jim did not desire to see him – and Spock admitted that they had not parted on the best of terms – then how was Spock to tell him about the Orion?  Who could he trust, if not Jim?  
  
McCoy nodded his thanks as a waiter came over and refilled his coffee.  
  
“Weird,” he said, taking a swallow and then spitting it back out again.  He fanned at his mouth, tongue sticking out of it.   
  
Spock raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Hoth,” said McCoy.  “Burned mah thung.”  
  
“How unfortunate,” observed Spock, taking a drink of his perfectly warmed tea.  
  
McCoy sent him a warning glare, and muttered something.  Spock considered calling him on it, but decided that it was not worth the effort.  Instead he stood, pushing his chair back.   
  
“I believe I am finished, Doctor,” he said, about to reach for his tray.  McCoy waved him off, seeming to have more or less recovered, judging by the way he was now gulping at his coffee.  
  
“The bussers’ll take it,” he told Spock, indicating several uniformed humans around the dining room.    
  
“Very well,” said Spock.  He inclined his head to McCoy, who gave him another wave of acknowledgement.  “If there is any need of me, I will be in my assigned hotel room.”  
  
“See you,” said McCoy.  
  
Spock headed back upstairs.  Perhaps the Orion woman had not been telling the truth.  He would attempt to once more contact the VSS _Nirak_.  
  
_______________________________________________________  
  
Jim came to in darkness and slime.  He could hear the cool _drip, drop, drip_ of water nearby.  He wiped what felt like filthy hands on his jeans, and made a face.  “Ugh,” he said.  
  
“Awake, human?” came a voice somewhere above him.  Along with it, a blazing white light shone onto his face.  Jim screwed his eyes shut and threw up his arm in front of his face to prevent being blinded.  
  
“What the hell!” he shouted, his mouth feeling as though it was stuffed full of lidocaine-infused cotton balls.   
  
“Spunky,” commented the voice.  
  
“Who are you?” demanded Jim.  He got to shaky feet, leaning against what felt like a concrete wall.  “Why am I here?  What the _fuck_ is going on?”  
  
“Careful, Captain Kirk.  If you move any more to the left, you will encounter something most unpleasant.  You don’t want to know the last thing we kept in here.”  
  
Jim stilled.  “How do you know my name?”  
  
Laughter.  “How do we know your name?  What a ridiculous thing to ask!  Of course we know your name.  We know everything about you, James Tiberius Kirk.  We know where you were born, and when.  We know what happened to your father.  We know what happened to your mother.”  A beat.  “We know what happened to you.”  
  
“You’re lying,” Jim said, although he wasn’t sure what the point of arguing with a disembodied voice was.  “You don’t know me.  You don’t know anything.”  
  
More laughter.  Was he being _toyed_ with?  Jim gripped the side of his jeans hard, his eyes still shut against the light.  “Humans are so precious!” it practically cooed.  “Should we prove it?  I mean, we don’t really have to—you’re not in a position to argue either way—but let’s, just for fun.  Just because.”  
  
Jim swallowed.  
  
“Tarsus IV,” came the voice.  This time quieter, this time more sinister.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jim gritted out.  “Tell me why I’m here.”  
  
“Tarsus IV,” the voice repeated, this time much more insistently.  
  
“Stop,” said Jim.  “That’s bullshit.  You’re just making shit up.”  
  
“We know you were there.  We sent you there.  We watched you there.  James Tiberius Kirk.”  
  
“Tarsus IV,” whispered Jim.  Without meaning to, he began to slip back down to the floor.  His mind felt numb.  He hated those words.  He hated what they did to him, the thoughts and feelings that their very utterance brought to surface.  Tarsus IV.  
  
“Do you remember, Jim?  Your mother gave you up to the Bureau.  Traitor’s son.  She sent you to die.”  
  
“Don’t call me that,” Jim said.   
  
“She sent you to work and starve and die a traitor’s death.”  
  
“She didn’t!” Jim shouted, voice hoarse.  “Fuck you, you’re twisting it!  You don’t know anything!  Tell me what you want, damn you!  Tell me!”  
  
“She sent you to die—” And here the voice paused, and seemed to smile—  “just like the Vulcan did.”  
  
Jim’s breath caught in his throat.  He scrabbled backwards, reaching for something to help him stand.  “What do you mean?”  
  
“The Vulcan, you stupid human.”  And here the voice took on an impatient edge.  “What, you think we just grab random humans off the street?  You have any idea how much work that would be?”  
  
Jim’s mouth felt dry.  “What do you want?”  
  
“The Bureau’s looking for you,” the voice said idly.  “Of course, we’ll give you to them when we’re done.  Probably.  Or we’ll have someone else do it.  Could be more interesting that way.  Regardless.”  The tone sharpened.  “Unless.  Unless.”  
  
“Get to the point,” Jim ground out.   
  
The voice let out a huff.  “So rude!” it exclaimed.  “Humans are so rude!  Did you learn about inquisition during your military training?  We’ll have to do something about that.”  
  
Something finally clicked in Jim’s brain.  “You’re not human,” he stated, not even bothering to make it a question.  
  
There was a bit of a pause.   
  
“On the other hand, maybe not,” the voice said, amused.  “Apparently not the brightest bulb in the galaxy.”  
  
“I don’t believe you,” said Jim, aware of how ridiculous the words were even as they left his mouth.  “You’re fucking with me.”  
  
“Believe me, human,” said the voice, sounding much more menacing than before.  “If we were _fucking with you_ , as your colloquialism so charmingly puts it, you’d know.”  
  
The light flicked off.  Jim blinked in the sudden darkness and the silence.   
  
“Hello?” he called out, voice cracking a little.  “He— hello?”  
  
There was no answer.  
  
Jim did not know how many hours he sat in the cold damp.  Around him he could hear what sounded like the screeching of rats, although thankfully none of them came too close to him.  That, and the dripping water, convinced him that he was likely somewhere underground.  It was cold.  He shivered.  
  
After a while, he attempted to walk the perimeter of his prison, feeling his way as he went.  Mindful of anything unpleasant he might step on or put his hand in, he walked in what felt like a ginger circle for ages and ages.  
  
There was no way out.  
  
He eased himself back down onto the floor.  The sound of the dripping water was starting to grate on his last nerve.  What had they been talking about, Spock giving him up?  That was absurd.  Spock would never do something like that.  They were friends.  Spock had promised him.  Spock had looked at him with those liquid eyes and _promised_.  
  
Hadn’t he?  
  
But what, exactly, had he promised? Jim realized.  He stood again to pace.  Spock had said that Jim’s life was his responsibility.  That was a promise, right?  A promise of comrades?  A promise of brothers?  Right?  
  
There had been promises made at Tarsus IV, Jim remembered.  They had not lasted.  
  
The light blasted on again.  Jim averted his face, eyes streaming from the unexpected brightness.  
  
“And now you have had time to ruminate,” came the same voice.  
  
“Fuck off,” said Jim, although he didn’t feel very brave even as he said it.  
  
Predictably, this was met with more laughter.   
  
“Tell me about the Vulcan, little human,” it ordered lazily.   
  
Jim set his shoulders.  “No,” he said, mouth in a thin line.  “I won’t.”  
  
“Tsk, tsk.  Are you protecting him?  Whatever for?  He’s the one who betrayed you first.”  There was the sound of spitting.  “Vulcans.  Logic is more precious to them than anything, even a brother.”  
  
“I don’t believe you,” Jim insisted.  “He wouldn’t do that to me.”  
  
“Not even to get back to his home planet?  You think he’d be stupid enough to give up his only chance at going home?  For you?  How illogical.”  
  
Jim was silent at this.  
  
 _“You want to know?  You’ll have to make a deal with them that are in the know.  But I guarantee you that without us, you’re never getting off this planet.”_  
  
“He made a deal, Jim Kirk.  Don’t you want the chance to make one too?”   
  
There was a very thick silence.  Jim could hear every breath he took.  He could hear the rush of blood through his body in the darkness.  He could hear his heart, beating slowly, steadily.  He closed his eyes.  In his mind’s eye swam the vision of Spock before him.  
  
 _“By saving your life once, I have assumed responsibility for it.  I cannot leave you here.”_  
  
“Tell us about the Vulcan, James Kirk.  Tell us, and we will release you.  We will send you back to the North American Collective.  Everything will be as it was.”  
  
Jim breathed in, out.  He felt a tingle down his spine, the sense memory of a mind locked with his.  A blank mask.  The barest upward quirk of the lips.  The grasp of a long-fingered hand around his wrist.  
  
“What do you want to know?”  
  
________________________________________

  Spock’s afternoon meditation was interrupted by an insistent rapping on his door.   
  
“Enter,” he called, after opening one eye and deeming that the person on the other side of the door would not go away.   
  
“You have to unlock it,” came Uhura’s muffled voice.  
  
Grumbling about stone-age technology and doors without voice-recognized authentication pass codes (didn’t humans _have_ that technology?  Why wasn’t it applied here?  Illogical), he stood, stretching out his legs, and ambled over to the door.  
  
Uhura was inside before Spock even had time to open his mouth and invite her.  
  
“Kirk’s not here,” she said without preamble.  
  
“No,” said Spock.  “Please, come in,” he added belatedly.   
  
She ignored that, fixing him with an intent look.  “Have you seen him?”  
  
“No,” Spock said.  “I have not.”  
  
“Damn,” she said quietly, folding her arms.  
  
Spock began to feel a strange sensation, as if a vice were squeezing at his insides.  “Is something wrong?”  
  
She shook her head, swiping hair out of her eyes.  “No, no,” she said, tapping her foot.  “I don’t know.  The hotel records say he checked in last night, but no one’s seen him and he hasn’t been answering the phone we gave him.”  
  
Spock’s unease grew stronger, although he tried to block it out.  “Have you looked at the security cameras?”  
  
Uhura gave him a measured look.  “How could we possibly get access to security cameras in a place like this?”  
  
“I understand that your Mr. Chekov has some expertise in that regard,” said Spock, face completely expressionless.  
  
She smiled up at him.  “So I have heard.”  
  
“And?”  
  
She dropped the smile and shook her head.  “Nothing useful.  He left—” she took a deep breath, then looked Spock straight in the eyes.  “He left a few minutes after you did.  Out the front.  But he never came back.  You don’t— you didn’t see him?”  
  
Spock suddenly recalled the sensation he’d had of being watched.  Had that been Jim?  If so, had Jim seen his encounter with the Orion woman?  It was impossible to know.  He cleared his throat.  
  
“I left on an errand for Mr. Pike,” he said.  “But I did not encounter Jim.  I . . .” he hesitated.  “It is possible however, that he followed me.  But if he did, I cannot explain why he did not return when I did.”  
  
She bit her lip.  “Where did you go?”  
  
“To an electronics store,” Spock said quietly.  His shoulders tensed.  “Mr. Pike made a request of me that I could not ignore.”  He looked away.  “Although so far I have been less than successful.”  
  
“What store?”  
  
Spock lifted his gaze.  If Jim had followed him, he might have seen the Orion woman.  He might have been affected by her.  He did not know the danger.  
  
“I will take you there.”  
  
Their impromptu search party gathered three more members before they reached the area in which Spock had spent the last evening.  Clearly foreign and, just as clearly drawing attention, they split up into groups.  Spock found himself paired with a woman named Christine Chapel.  Unfortunately for any attempt at a subtle manhunt, Chapel’s bright red, spiked hair and her multitude of tattoos, combined with Spock’s complete ineptitude at the local dialect, did not make them any less conspicuous.  
  
At least Chapel’s command of the language was somewhat better than his.  
  
“No one’s seen anything,” she reported to Spock, after a lengthy conversation with a baker in which not only information, but also small buns exchanged hands.  “And a guy like Kirk would be pretty noticeable around here.  This isn’t exactly International District, Tokyo.”  She offered him a bun.   
  
Spock took it, and bit into it.  The filling in the middle was somewhat sweet, and slightly grainy.  He turned to Chapel, eyebrow raised.  
  
“Adzuki bean,” she said, answering the unasked question.  “It’s my favorite.”  
  
Spock took another bite as they wandered up the street, still keeping an eye out for anything unusual.  Although, Spock wondered what exactly that might constitute, and doubted that he’d recognize it if he saw it.  As it was, the street already looked pretty unusual from his Vulcan point of view.  There were signs in languages he could not read; strange scents wafted from stores and restaurants; a toothless old woman looked him up and down and grinned.  
  
Chapel tugged him along past the old woman.  “We should get back to the hotel,” she said as they passed a small park.  “It’s going to get dark soon.  I don’t want to be out here after dark.”  
  
“Have you lived here many years?”  
  
She shrugged her shoulders up and down.  “About five,” she said.  “There’s a lot of call for nurses in a place like this.”  She grinned, suddenly.  “Loosened me up a bit, I’ll tell you.  I used to be so straight laced, I almost joined up with the Navy.”  
  
“I was given to understand that all citizens were required to serve,” Spock said.  
  
“Well, yeah,” Chapel said.  “But there are other ways to do it if you’ve got some skill or another.  I was lucky enough to just get posted to a military hospital for a few years.  Didn’t even have to go through any training— except for the nursing stuff of course.  Which I had already done.”  
  
“I see,” said Spock politely.  
  
Her expression turned wry.  “Wouldn’t do to have all your best doctors and engineers blown up in combat, would it?  That’s what foot soldiers are for, right?”  
  
Spock ate the rest of the bun, covering up the metallic feeling of distaste in his mouth.  
  
When they reconvened with the others back at the hotel, it became very clear that Jim was nowhere to be found.  Dinner was a quiet affair.  Uhura had a distant look about her, discussing something with Pike in a grave undertone, her food mostly untouched.  McCoy chewed his lip, clearly worried.  Chekov was quiet.  Sulu, sullen.  Spock had to admit that he did not know the remainder of the Resistance members present – twelve strange men and women who had shown up along with Pike – well enough to judge their moods, but there was little conversation at the table.  What words were spoken were hushed and curt.  The atmosphere felt thick with tension and worry.  
  
With each passing moment, Spock wondered more and more if he ought to have told Uhura or McCoy about the Orion woman.  What if she had been involved in Jim’s disappearance?  A thought struck him then.  And what if she hadn’t?  What if Jim had been taken by one of the myriad of petty gangs littering the city?  They wouldn’t even know where to begin looking.   
  
What if Jim had simply . . . left?  
  
Spock shoved that thought out of his mind, and attempted to focus on the present.  The evening meal was nearly done.  Jim was still gone.  
  
Orions were known for taking people.  Their slave trade was infamous throughout the galaxy.  
  
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, and pushed away from the table.  McCoy looked up at him with raised eyebrows as he stood and gave an awkward little half-bow.  “I must take my leave,” he said, voice curt.   
  
Pike blinked at him, fork halfway to his mouth.  “Uh, don’t let us keep you,” he said, nonplussed.   
  
Spock nodded, and stalked out of the dining room.  Behind him, he could hear McCoy murmur something about “Meditating.  He is always, goddamn meditating.”  Spock allowed the words to pass over him.  Let McCoy think what he wished, his misconceptions had no impact on Spock.  
  
Spock slept little that night.  He tried several more times to contact the VSS _Nirak_.  Each attempt was met with static.  He went over the data Mr. Scott had sent him, researching the historical significance of gold dirt and the drug trade.  He noted with a vague interest that drug money was responsible for at least three current, major wars, and probably for a fourth, but his heart wasn’t into the research.  He could not focus.  At last he took to staring blankly at the wall, waiting for the sun to rise.   
  
Perhaps Jim would have arrived by that time?  His presence would definitely make certain decisions of Spock’s considerably less guilt inducing than they were now.  Probably.  Although at this point, the Resistance would really start to wonder why Spock had taken so long to inform them about his meeting the Orion woman anyway.  Waiting for Jim was almost moot.  
  
Spock slipped into a light doze an hour or so before dawn.  When he cracked his eyes open two point three hours later, it was to the early morning lights streaming through his undrawn curtains.  He rolled off the bed with stiff movements, heading towards the window.  
  
As he drew the curtains, Spock allowed his gaze to travel through the remainder of the hotel room.  He frowned in consternation at the mess he had made of his clothes, some on the ground, and some half-hanging out of his bag.  He moved over to the chair and bent down to pick up the offending items, when something next to the door caught his eye.  
  
Something white had been clearly slipped under his door.  Spock took a few steps forward and reached for it.   
  
It was a note.  
  
The paper crinkled in his hand as he smoothed it out.  As he read, his lips thinned and his eyes narrowed.  Finished, he very calmly folded the note into eight pieces, and tucked it into the pocket of his pants.  He moved away from the door and around the bed to the worktable in short, jerky motions.  Fingers gripping his useless radio with more strength than strictly necessary, he dismantled it bit by bit, then took what he had destroyed and began to wire it into something new.  
  
A half an hour later, Spock tucked his creation into his bag, slung the bag over his shoulder, and left the room.  The hotel lobby was nearly deserted and Spock paid the receptionist no mind as he strode out the door, and into the early morning light.


	14. Interlude

Thanks to Kupo for the lovely edits! 

**Interlude**  
  
Amanda paced the outer room of Sarek’s study.  Her home-robe was near light enough to be scandalous anywhere outside of sleeping, but she was beyond caring.  Its cool fabric did the job of keeping her temperature modulated enough for comfort, and she quite liked the delicate green embroidery down the front.  Besides, the only one in the household who would have such ridiculous notions about propriety was Sarek himself, and he was not here to complain.  
  
Sarek was out.  He had been called to a meeting with the High Command and nothing short of the house literally being on fire would suffice as an excuse to not attend to them with all haste.  Therefore, with a quick tap of the fingers and a meaningful look at Amanda, he had gathered up his data pad, straightened his robes, and swept out of the house.  Amanda gazed after him forlornly, patting her own hair back down into place.  She half expected violin music to start wailing in the background, before recalling that she lived on the planet Vulcan, and not in a period piece, and that Vulcans had opinions about things like wailing violins and forlorn wives.  
  
Still, she had been waiting all week to get her hands on Sarek.  What could she say?  She was worried, and he was comforting.  Also, he was warm, and didn’t seem to mind when she curled up next to him on the couch and shoved her cold feet under his form.  Ah, the joys of matrimony, especially when they involved one’s personal space heater.  
  
Her gaze drifted across the room, and the firmness around her mouth at Sarek’s abrupt departure, softened a little as she spotted the holo of Spock pushed up against the corner of a shelf.  
  
She walked over and picked it up.  Her boy was young – eleven, maybe twelve?  His hair was shiny smooth and flat against his head, and his robes a bit dusty.  He also had a smidgeon of dirt on his cheek.  Sybok’s form next to him towered over his wiry frame.  
  
Sarek’s firstborn had apparently been cajoling Spock into the line of the camera, for Spock would reluctantly be tugged into view by the arm, scowl at the camera without even twitching his mouth, then turn to the side to give Sybok – half in the picture and half out – a piece of his mind.  Then the scene would freeze, and play again from the beginning.  
  
She traced the outline of Spock’s face with the tip of her pinky finger.  Where was he now, on her home planet?  What did he think of it?  Had his mission met with any success?  
  
Had it met with failure?  
  
She placed the holo back down again with a sigh.  Spock was resourceful.  He was Sarek’s son, and he was hers.  If a matter had gone awry, he would fix it.  She was his mother, and she would worry (and who, in their right mind, could not?) but he would be fine.  
  
He would be fine.  
  
This mantra was enough to placate her through the rest of the evening.  It followed as she labored over some translations, and then went out to feed the sehlat.  She had named the creature Floppy, much to Spock and Sarek’s chagrin.  They had had more of those Vulcan feelings about using an adjective for a name, but she had pointed out that as Floppy was her sehlat, and not theirs, it hardly mattered what they thought.  Also, Floppy _was_ floppy, his too-large ears jolted this way and that as he bounded over to her, and his paws (the size of his head, at this point) skidded across the tile as he came to rest by her feet.  
  
She fed him and, when he had finished his meal, buried her face and hands in his fur for comfort.  It was wiry compared to, say, a cat’s fur, but she liked the way it curled.  She also liked the way it did not shed on her.  
  
When Sarek arrived home late that night, it was to the sight of his wife nestled next to an essentially unconscious young sehlat, still on the back patio.  After a moment of contemplating the scene (and even considering fetching a camera—not for himself of course, but for Amanda) he knelt down next to the pair and nudged Floppy over so that he could gather Amanda in his arms.  
  
Floppy growled a bit, but reluctantly allowed himself to be moved.  Sarek straightened, Amanda held close to his chest, and strode back into the house on silent feet.  He laid her in bed, still sleeping, and considered waking her.  
  
She would not thank him if he did, and she would thank him even less for the news he bore.  He decided to wait until morning, when calmer heads might prevail.  Donning his own sleepwear, he stretched out beside her.  He trailed a finger along her face, unknowingly imitating Amanda’s earlier movements with the old holo of Spock.  With an exhale, he turned onto his back, placed his hands on his stomach, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.  
  
In the morning, Sarek woke to the smell of something frying.  
  
Amanda.  She had always been less than satisfied with simple plomeek broth for breakfast.  As Sarek rolled to his feet, he took a deep sniff of the air.  Pancakes, he decided, and did not wonder why, on this of all mornings, she had decided to make a dish from her home planet.  
  
He entered the kitchen, bare feet soft on the cold stone floor.  Despite his silence, Amanda stiffened for a moment as she sensed a presence, then relaxed her shoulders as she noted it to be his.  
  
“Morning,” she said, turning around and giving him a faint smile.  She turned back to the stove, and flipped something in the pan.  
  
Smiles.  So human.  Sarek could not help but marvel, much as he had for these past thirty years.  
  
Spock did not smile.  But then, he had been raised in the Vulcan way.  As a small child he had laughed, but he had grown out of showing it.  (Of course Sybok, who had none of Spock’s excuses, laughed far more often than any Vulcan in his right mind).   
  
Spock fancied himself like his father, Sarek knew; stern around the mouth, controlled, duty-bound.  But Sarek knew him better.  Sarek knew those brown eyes (Amanda’s) ached for the freedom of the stars, and those gentle hands, with their long fingers (Amanda’s) were better suited to soothing than chastising.  In truth, Sarek knew neither of his sons resembled him (although Sybok was truly a mystery among mysteries.  At least Spock’s characteristics were traceable).  So be it.  Perhaps it was better this way.  
  
He sat at the table.  Before long his wife, and their breakfast, joined him.  
  
“So what did the Councilors have to say?”  
  
Sarek glanced at her from under lowered eyes.  He chewed, wondering if the pancakes on Sol III, made with different ingredients, from a different world, tasted like this.  He remembered Amanda had gone through many incarnations of the food before declaring this one ‘acceptable.’  Sarek had not minded.  
  
“Sarek?”  Amanda was looking at him strangely now.  She must have realized that he was stalling.  Sarek made himself put down the utensils.  
  
“The VSS _Nirak_ has not been responding to hails,” he said.  
  
“The VSS . . .” he watched as Amanda half-formed the words in her mouth, before making the connection.  “That was that ship Spock was on.”  
  
There was no point in denying it.  “Yes.”  
  
Her voice abruptly rose.  “And you didn’t think to mention this to me yesterday?”  
  
“You were asleep.”  Sarek watched her closely.  She appeared somewhat emotional.  Humans were unpredictable when emotional.  
  
“I don’t care,” she snapped.  Without meaning to, Sarek flinched a little.  Amanda so rarely raised her voice.  She was upset, then.  Clearly he had misstepped.  
  
“I did not want to disturb your sleep when nothing could be accomplished but worry,” he attempted to explain.  
  
She glared at him, then her shoulders slumped a little.  “Are they sending out ships?”  
  
Sarek shifted his feet underneath the table.  “They are still attempting to re-establish contact,” he said.  “If they cannot, they will send out a scout ship.”  
  
“A scout ship?” her voice rose again.  “A measly little scout ship?  The VSS _Nirak_ held two hundred passengers, I don’t think a _scout ship_ is going to be enough to handle whatever happened to it!”  
  
“We do not know that anything has happened to the _Nirak_ ,” Sarek reminded her.  “We have merely conjecture.  There are any number of causes that might affect a ship’s communications.  There might be interference from the magnetic fields of the system’s gas planets.  A wire may simply be crossed.”  
  
“They might have been attacked by a Klingon war bird.”  
  
“We cannot know.  The High Command will not be moved on this.  If the VSS _Nirak_ continues to be unresponsive, they will send a scouting ship in two days.”  
  
Amadna’s face turned red and she stood from the table.  “Did you even try?” she demanded, placing her hands on the table and leaning towards Sarek.  “Or was it all ‘yes Council, of course Council, never mind my son might be _dying_ Council.  Do what is logical, Council.’”  She spat.  
  
“Amanda,” Sarek said.  Her words . . . stung.  Yes, that was the term for it.  They hurt.  
  
Unwillingly she met his gaze.  Though Sarek imagined his face to be as impenetrable as ever, she looked slightly ashamed by what she saw there.  “You should have told me,” she said, folding her arms around her middle.  But Spock was far gone from being in her womb.  She could not protect him there.  She sat down again.  
  
“I tried,” he said.  “I urged them to send a ship immediately, or to reroute one already nearby, but they would not listen.”  Wryly he added, “I believe their exact refusal was stated along the terms of my being ‘emotionally compromised by the situation at hand.’”  
  
“Assholes,” Amanda muttered out of the corner of her mouth.  
  
Sarek could not find it in himself to disagree.  “If—” he hesitated.  “If something _has_ happened to the _Nirak_ , then it is unlikely Spock was there when it did.  We had already received confirmation of his beamdown onto Sol III.”  
  
“Earth,” said Amanda.  
  
“Earth,” Sarek repeated.  
  
She looked away, out the window at the desert cliffs and mountains.  “That doesn’t really make me feel any better.”  
  
Sarek did not know what to say.  He watched with dark eyes as she turned back to him, her mouth fixed in a thin, decisive line.  
  
“You have to go back.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
She nodded firmly.  “You have to go back to the High Command.  They’ll never listen to me – I’m too emotional, they’ll say.”  She snorted.  “But T’Pau can get you an audience.  You have to go back.  You have to convince them to send ships.  Big ships, not a damn scout.”  
  
Sarek closed his eyes and folded his hands in front of his face.  “Amanda, the Council has decided.  Any emotional pleading on my part will not change that.”  
  
Amanda’s face took on an even more mulish cast.  “You have to go, Sarek.  You have to convince them.”  
  
He looked at her, willing her to understand the illogic of her request.  “It will do no good.”  
  
“Are you a diplomat or aren’t you?” she retorted.  “Make them listen!”  
  
“Amanda—”  
  
“Sarek, if you don’t move your butt out of this house and back over to the Command and go get them to rescue our son, then I may never forgive you.  I’m serious.”  
  
She _was_ serious, too.  Sarek could feel it in his mind, just as well as he could read it on her face.  He exhaled.  She glared at him, then raised one eyebrow.  
  
“Well?”  
  
He swallowed one last bite of pancake before scooting back his chair and standing.  He adjusted the sleeves of his robes, and lamented that he had not thought to bathe before breakfast.  “I will take my leave, then,” he said.  
  
Amanda looked at him intently.  “To the Councilors.”  
  
He resisted the urge to grimace.  It would be most unbecoming.  “Yes,“ he said reluctantly, “to the Councilors of the High Command.  I will petition them once more.”  
  
Now she gifted him with a slight smile.  “Thank you,” she said softly, reaching out to clasp his hand.  He squeezed hers briefly in return, then let go.  
  
“I do not know when I will return.”  
  
“I understand,” she said.  
  
He nodded.  
  
After Sarek left, Amanda sat at the breakfast table for a long while, trying not to think of all the horrible things that might have befallen Spock.  She was only marginally successful.  She considered going back to her translation work, but knew that she would not be able to concentrate.  Instead she did the dishes by hand, under the half-formed impression that some mindless manual labor would put her a bit more at ease.  
  
It didn’t.   But it did give her an idea.  
  
She stalked back over to Sarek’s study, and plunked herself down in front of his worktable.  While the base of the table itself was imported wood from the forests of Andoria, the transparent aluminum-covered surface of it actually functioned as a computer.  She ordered its boot sequence in a terse voice, and skimmed her hand lightly along the surface for it to analyze her accessing fingerprints.  
  
That done, she set out to program a sub-space call to Romulus.  
  
It took a minute or two for Sybok to pick up.  With the video function on, Amanda fervently hoped that he had not been indulging in any of those rather un-Vulcan entertainments scattered throughout the seedier districts of Romulus.  He had mentioned going to one previously, but Amanda had never been sure if that had been fact, or an exaggeration aimed to drive Sarek even more to his wits end.  
  
Sybok finally picked up.  “Amanda?” he questioned, blinking at her owlishly.  She immediately felt bad.  It must be night in Ki Baratan.  On the other hand, what she could see of the room behind him didn’t look anything like a brothel, so that was a bit of a relief.  
  
She faced her stepson and bit her lip, suddenly feeling the strongest urge to cry.  Seeing her blink back tears, Sybok’s face took on a more alarmed cast.  
  
“Is everything all right?  Where’s— did something happen to my father?”  
  
Mute, she shook her head, willing control over her voice.  Finally she managed, “No, your father is fine.  He’s just— he’s meeting with the High Command, right now.”  
  
If possible, Sybok looked even more concerned.  “And is there a problem?”  
  
It felt as though there were a lump lodged in her throat.  “It’s Spock,” she heard herself say, as if from a distance.  “He—”  
  
Sybok shook his head, reaching as if to touch through the screen and reassure her.  He had always been an empathic child.  “No, Amanda, no, no,” he said, shaking his head.  “Spock is alive.  If he were dead, I’d know.  Father would know.  You have a bond with him too, even if it’s small.  He’s still there.  Just— far away.”  
  
She swallowed around her tears and allowed a small smile.  “I know,” she said, voice soft.  “But his ship hasn’t been responding to hails.  Something may have happened.  And the High Command . . .” she trailed off, and then anger made her sit up straighter.  “The High Command isn’t even willing to send anything but a scout ship, and not for a few days.  By that time, who knows?”  She spread her hands.  “Sarek’s gone back to try and get them to _see sense_ , but you know what they’re like.”  
  
Sybok nodded slowly.  “You wouldn’t have anything to do with my father’s most illogical action, would you?”  
  
She tilted her head.  “Me?  I’m just an illogical, overly emotional human.  Me?  Convince Ambassador Sarek himself to be illogical?”  
  
“Right,” said Sybok dryly.  He looked thoughtful for a moment, staring off the screen at something Amanda couldn’t see.  “You don’t think the Councilors will do anything?”  
  
“They’re bureaucrats,” she said bluntly.  “And I’m sorry, but I’m not going to put Spock’s life in the hands of a vote.”  
  
The corner of Sybok’s mouth contorted into a frown.  He looked more intently at Amanda, the last of the sleepiness gone from his eyes.  “What are you thinking?”  
  
Amanda set her shoulders.  “So about those . . . _business associates_ of yours that Sarek never wants to hear about.”  
  
Sybok raised an eyebrow at her, for a moment looking so like Spock that it made her heart clench.  
  
“The ones that my father calls ‘degenerates’ and the Vulcan Customs Agency calls ‘Romulan dissidents?’” he asked after a moment’s consideration dedicated to denying anything of the sort.  
  
Amanda relaxed her lips into the slightest of smirks.  “Yeah, those ones.  Any smugglers?”  
  
Sybok leaned forward on his elbows.  “Amanda,” he said, eyes gleaming, “if you weren’t my father’s wife who raised me from childhood, I’d marry you.”  
  
She wrinkled her nose, laughing a little.  
  
Sybok sat back with a decisive nod.  “I’ll make some calls,” he said.  “Try to figure if someone’s been making mischief in near-Vulcan space.  And then see what we can do about it.”  
  
“You’ll let me know?”  
  
He gave her a look.  “Of course!  If father thinks that I came up with this, he’ll probably disown me.  Better you get the credit for it.”  
  
She narrowed her eyes.  “Don’t make me send you in for extra meditation lessons.”  
  
Sybok shuddered.  “Anything but that,” he said.  Then his face turned serious, and he lifted the _ta’al_ to Amanda.  “I’ll get to work,” he said.  “Don’t worry yourself too much, or else Spock will use me for his next suss-mahn demonstration.”  
  
“That was only the once,” said Amanda.  
  
“Once was bad enough,” Sybok said.  He reached to turn off the call.  “I’ll let you know if I discover anything useful.”  
  
“Thank you, Sybok,” she said.  
  
“He’s important to me too,” Sybok said, serious for once.  “I’ll let you know,” he said again.  
  
She nodded, and the screen winked out.  
  
Amanda stared down at the table, tapping her fingers, deep in thought.  After a moment she sighed, turned off Sarek’s computer, and exited the room.


	15. Let Your Spirit Fly III

**Let Your Spirit Fly III**  
  
Spock now had the route to the Orion woman’s club emblazoned on his memory as if branded there.  He was not confident enough to take any shortcuts, but his long legs allowed quick passage through the, mostly deserted, early morning streets.  
  
When he arrived at the club, he stood for a moment at the front entrance.  He tilted his head in consideration, peering at the peeling yellow and red paint on the low-hanging door, and the flickering electric sign flashing bits of characters that he could not decipher.  The windows were dark and the building silent.   
  
Well, the note had stated that he was to come here.  Spock set his shoulders, raised his chin, and pushed on the door with an open palm.  It was unlocked, and swung open easily at his touch.  
  
He caught his breath at the warm influx of air that assaulted his lungs and skin.  Tokyo was cooler than he preferred (although Edinburgh had been even worse) and the warmth was a relief to his Vulcan blood.  On the other hand, the Orion homeworld was a humid planet and there was a level of moisture to the air that Spock decided that he could do without.  He took three steps into the building, and the door swung shut behind him.  
  
Spock looked around.  There were several tables, a raised platform, and a long countertop along the side of one wall.  The room was deserted.  Spock felt a tightness around his heart, although he was not sure whether it could be attributed to anxiety or irritation.  
  
Probably both, he considered, scanning the empty room once more.  Really, even Klingons were more considerate than Orions.  At least they would have let him know where they were.  Of course, they also would have had the sense to just kill him and be done with it.  Games were not the preferred Klingon war-method.  His mouth turned down the smallest bit.  The Orion Syndicate reveled in games.  
  
His gaze passed over the room again, and this time he spotted a door next to the raised platform.  It was the same dirty brown color as the rest of the walls and blended in almost seamlessly, except for the metal doorknob.  Trying to focus more on his irritation and less on his anxiety, Spock moved towards the door and twisted the knob.  
  
Spock took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the brightness of the room, but when they did he saw that it was much nicer than the one he had just passed through, albeit a bit smaller.  There were plush couches, and fine paintings on the walls.  There was a desk with what looked like the standard Orion computer (oval, with bright blue markings), and a pitcher of some dark liquid placed next to it.  Three beings stood in the center of the room, facing the doorway.  Spock let the door close gently behind him.  
  
“So you did come,” said the figure in the center.  “We didn’t think a Vulcan would lower himself so.”  He stepped closer to Spock, who willed himself to be as stone, and did not budge.  “Welcome to Orion hospitality, Vulcan,” he said, indicating the room around him.  Spock noticed that his skin was an orange-red.  
  
Spock opened his mouth.  “I am here to make a trade,” he said firmly.  
  
The being who had spoken before, barked out an incredulous laugh.  “A trade?” he repeated.  He snorted.  “A Vulcan wants to make a trade?  Ha!  Vulcans do not trade with Orions.”  
  
“Nevertheless,” Spock said quietly.  He widened his stance and cocked his head.  “Do you refuse me?”  
  
“Shall I shoot him?” asked the woman to the center being’s left.  She too was orange, with bright white hair.  
  
The middle being looked at Spock in consideration.  
  
“Do you refuse my offer to trade?”  Spock repeated.  “Very well, I will leave.”  He half pivoted as if to go, then froze at the sound of a charging energy weapon, and turned slowly back around.  
  
“You stay here,” said the middle Orion, all friendliness gone from his tone, the barrel of his weapon trained on Spock.  “Or I’ll shoot you right now.”  
  
Spock lifted both eyebrows.  “Then you will die,” he said, aiming for that casually callous tone adopted by _kolinahr_ masters.  He ended up sounding a little bit more like his father than he was really comfortable with, and felt a flicker of resignation at the very idea.  
  
The main speaker narrowed his eyes at Spock.  He was powerfully built but Spock did not think he was trained in the art of physical combat, beyond the basics.  His stance was rather poor at any rate, if their confrontation should come to brawl.  “Vulcans do not make very good comedians,” he said, voice hard.  “What are you talking about?”  
  
Spock allowed his arms to drape loosely at his sides.  “I have an incendiary device in my bag,” he said.  “If you shoot me, it will explode.”  His voice turned thoughtful.  “It should be sufficient to destroy a significant part of this building.  Owing to the roughness of the materials however, my calculations might be off by approximately five point three percent.”  
  
They stared at him in the ensuing silence.  
  
“I wish to make a trade,” Spock said for the third time.  
  
Finally the Orion woman with the orange skin and the white hair spoke.  “You’re bluffing,” she said flatly.  She raised her own weapon.  “Vulcans don’t lie.”  
  
Spock stepped closer.  “As of the last census, there were nine hundred and twelve Vulcan-Romulan hybrids,” he said.  He slung the backpack off his back, unzipped it, and reached inside, pulling out the tangled mess of wires he had put together so very efficiently back at the hotel.  He placed it back inside the bag gently, zipped it up again, and shrugged back into the straps.  “You may attribute this propensity towards violence to my mother’s people if you wish,” he said, his words like ice.  “I have been well-assured that destruction is one of their preferred pastimes.”  
  
There was another long pause, and then as one the middle Orion and the female lowered their weapons.  
  
Spock reached into his pocket and withdrew the note.  “You invited me here to trade,” he said, voice as bland as ever.  “And I have taken you up on your offer.”  
  
The third Orion, who had not yet spoken, stepped forward.  He too was orange, his skin wrinkled, and his yellow hair sparse.  “Very well, Vulcan,” he said in a high, reedy voice.  “What will you trade?”  
  
“I will trade for the human,” Spock said.  “I will trade for James Kirk.”  
  
The older Orion crossed his arms, gaze shrewd.  “We were going to give him to the Bureau.  Do you have a better offer?”  
  
“Yes,” said Spock, unhesitating, although his mouth felt dry.  “In return for the human’s release – now and forever from Orion influence,” he added, seeing the being in the middle about to open his mouth in a smirk.  “In return for Kirk’s release, I will trade myself.”  He shifted the weight of his backpack on his shoulders.  “I will probably fetch a much higher ransom than a human.”  
  
They gawked at him in open surprise.  
  
The female Orion recovered first.  “Trade the human for you?” she howled, slapping her leg in mirth.  “Oh, that’s a good one.  Come back when you have another.”  
  
“I do not understand the source of your amusement,” Spock said.  
  
The other two Orions were starting to crack grins as well.  “It’s funny because it’s so sickeningly noble,” said the younger male to the older.  
  
“Vulcans.  Logical until they run into a wall of tradition,” the eldest said.  
  
Spock narrowed his eyes.  “My family would pay handsomely for my safe return.”  
  
“Nice try,” the woman said, wiping tears from her eyes.  She looked at the eldest.  “May I shoot him now?”  
  
“My father—” started Spock, clenching his teeth.  
  
“Oh please,” the middle Orion said, waving Spock’s words away with a casual flick of the wrist.  “What, you thought you could catch us with a stupid little lie, just because you’re part Romulan?”  He spat.  “Your human already _told_ us you’re a nobody.  Just a little scout pilot unlucky enough to get the job checking out a backwater.”  He laughed again.  “You sure you want to trade your life for a little traitor?”  He shrugged.  “I wouldn’t.”  
  
Spock’s mind felt stuck.  He had told Jim his father was an important figure.  Jim had— had lied?  For what purpose?  How was Spock supposed to find him now?  He gathered the fraying edges of his courage.  
  
“Regardless,” he said.  “I will trade for him.”  
  
The Orion woman shook her head.  “But we don’t _want_ you,” she said.  “Why would we trade for you?”  
  
Spock thought for a moment.  “You want my death,” he said quietly.  “If I live, there exists the possibility that I will warn Vulcan of your presence here.  That is why you invited me here, is it not?”  
  
“Obviously,” she returned, free hand on her hip.  
  
“Bring James Kirk here.  Set him free and I will disable the bomb.”  Spock jerked his head, a cool gaze passing over the Orions’ weapons.  “Then you may do as you wish.”  
  
The Orions met his unflinching stare.  
  
“Very well,” the eldest sighed, stepping back a little.  “We will bring the human here, and you will allow us to kill you.”  He smiled, showing teeth.  “Not a very good deal on your part, I must say.”  
  
“It will suffice,” said Spock.  
  
The Orion bowed mockingly.  He turned to the woman.  “Tell Gaila to bring up the human,” he said.  He pursed his lips.  “Blindfolded,” he added.  The Orion woman gave him a lazy salute, two taps of her fist to her palm, before pulling out a communicator.  
  
Five minutes later, the silence growing heavier with every passing second, there was a knock on the wall next to the table.  Without taking his eyes from Spock, the eldest Orion called, “Enter.”  
  
Spock watched with only a minute amount of surprise, none of which showed in his expression, as the wall slid to the side and revealed two figures.  He recognized Jim’s bound and blindfolded form immediately, though at first he saw only the silhouette of him against the light.  He noted that the green Orion female holding him upright (why was she holding him up?  Was there something wrong with his legs?), was the same female he had encountered two nights previous.  
  
“Ah, Gaila,” said the old Orion.  “Deposit the human on the floor, would you?”  
  
Gaila cocked an eyebrow at him, then nodded and did as he bid.  Without her to support him, Jim slumped to the center of the floor as if boneless.  Spock clenched his fists behind his back.  
  
“What have you done to him?”  
  
The orange Orion female flicked her gaze over Jim, and then up the taut lines of Spock’s body dispassionately.  “Drugged, I should think,” she said.  
  
Spock’s jaw worked.  “The trade is void if he cannot leave this place in safety.”  
  
“Gaila will see him out,” she replied, barely looking at him.  She twirled her weapon from one hand to another.  The silvery plating on the side winked at Spock as it caught the light.  
  
Spock swung his head to look at the green Orion woman.  She stood, hands in the back pocket of her Earth style black trousers, looking innocently up at the ceiling.  Spock turned back to the other Orions.  
  
“I do not trust her,” he said, not even managing to keep the venom from his voice.  “As I do not trust you.”  
  
At that, Gaila sighed.  “Really,” she said, clicking her tongue.  “What did I ever do to you?”  
  
Spock pointed to Jim and gave her an incredulous look.  
  
“Hey, I had nothing to do with that,” she said.  “He got caught all on his own.  I was just minding my own business.”  
  
Spock managed to stop a full-on glare, but it was a hard-fought battle.  
  
Seeing his reservations, Gaila, at a motion from the eldest Orion, bent down, dragged an oblivious Jim back to his feet, then heaved him over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry.  She stood up straight again under his weight, and walked over to Spock, who could not help the nervous flittering of his gaze over Jim’s face.  Jim groaned, and something loosened infinitesimally inside Spock.  
  
“See?” said Gaila.  “I’ll just take him straight back to the hotel.  He’ll be right as rain.”  
  
Spock stared at her queerly.  “Is that a human idiom?” he asked after a moment.  
  
She rolled her eyes, then shifted a little, careful of Jim’s limp body, and looked back at the other Orions.  “If you would please, sirs,” she said, and Spock got the sense that if she were not supporting the weight of a full-grown human male, she would have made an ironic little bow to them.  “Wait to kill him until after we’ve left.  I hate the mess.”  
  
The orange Orion female sneered at her.  “We’ll kill him whenever we want,” she said.  
  
Gaila sighed again.  “As you will,” she said.  Then something lightened in her eyes.  “Don’t forget he’s got a bomb strapped to his back,” she said cheekily, as if she could not help herself.  The other Orion woman’s gaze darkened.  
  
“Do you take us for fools?”  
  
“And that’s my cue to go,” she said to Spock, moving towards him so that she and her burden were nearly side by side with Spock.  Spock hesitated a moment, resisting the urge to reach out to Jim, and then stepped aside to let her pass.  
  
“Oh, by the way, Vulcan,” she said to Spock.  Spock looked at her warily, and then he nearly rocked back in surprise as she said to him in passable Romulan _,_ _“Close your eyes in about five seconds unless you want to be permanently blinded.”_  
  
Spock stared at her.  “What—” he began.  
  
 _“Do it!”_ she snarled.  
  
Almost against his will, Spock shut his eyes.  And none too soon.  There was a slight fizzing sound, and then Spock felt an incredible amount of heat against his skin and brightness against his eyelids.  H could hear enraged shrieks of the other Orions as the whatever-it-was reached them.  He felt a tugging on his arm.  
  
“ _Flash bomb, let’s go!”_ came Gaila’s voice.  
  
Blindly he followed her out the door.  She slammed it behind them.  “Open your eyes!” she commanded.  Spock did so, and blinked stupidly as she removed Jim’s draped form from her shoulder and deposited him in Spock’s arms.  “He’s too damn heavy,” she panted.  “You get to carry him.  Let’s go!”  
  
“Wait!” said Spock, as she hurried across the first room he had entered, dodging around tables and chairs with ease.  He rushed after her, shifting Jim’s weight as he did so.  “What is the meaning of this?”  
  
She stopped at the door, breath coming harder.  “Moving now, questions later,” she said brusquely, swiping her hand across the locked (when had it locked? Spock wondered) door.  It clanked open with a groan.  
  
“But why—” said Spock dumbly, standing at the exit.  
  
She yanked on his shirt collar.  “There is a bomb in this building that would make your little homemade contraption look like a firework.  It’s going to go off in five minutes, but I’d prefer it goes off a bit sooner, _before_ they figure that part out.  Come _on_!”  
  
“But how do you know that?” asked Spock, stumbling after her into the shadow of the next building.  She gave him a scowl like this was a very stupid question, and then pulled a remote detonator out of her pocket.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said acidly, waving it in his face, the little red light blinking.  “Just a hunch I guess.”  
  
“Ah,” said Spock.  His jaw clenched in irritation as she bounded away again, this time headed straight down the narrow alleyway.  Jim still in his grasp, Spock followed as best as he was able.  
  
Finally, about a block away, she stopped.  Spock could still see the roof of the building, though not the door.  He wondered if the other three Orions had recovered enough to come after them.  
  
Gaila first watched to make sure Spock and Jim were still with her.  Then she smiled.  
  
Spock felt a foreboding prickle of goose bumps up the back of his neck.  
  
 “It was a shitty bar anyhow,” she said with an almost alarming amount of cheeriness, and pressed the button on the remote with one well-manicured finger.  
  
The building exploded.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

   
Jim was not really sure what to think of swimming back to consciousness only to find Spock’s face inches from his own, and looking either very anxious, or very constipated.

The logical side of Jim, inasmuch as he had one, pointed out quite helpfully that Spock’s face was not supposed to be purple, and that his hair was most definitely not supposed to be bright orange, and therefore he, Jim, was probably dreaming.  Or hallucinating.  Or, given his luck, experiencing some bizarre combination of both.

_“The stuff I gave him is going to make him loopy,”_ said what was either a cartoon snake or one of his kidnappers.  Jim considered both of these possibilities highly unlikely, and was dreamily very put out.

“Darling, those colors are so not you,” Jim slurred, pawing at Spock’s turquoise and diamond shirtsleeve.

_“Jim,”_ Spock admonished, catching Jim’s hand and gripping it.  Jim was too distracted by Spock’s rapidly changing hair length to notice.

“The fuck, that’s not normal,” he tried to say.  His tongue felt like it had been bolted to his teeth and then covered in cat fur.

Spock raised what Jim thought was supposed be his eyebrow, but actually looked like a rainbow attached to his face.  He struggled to grasp at something grounded in a functional reality.

“Drugged,” he managed, sort of making it a question but mostly stating it as fact.

_“Yblretb,”_ said Spock, looking very grave.

Jim blacked out again.

The next time he came to, the world was a normal shade of brownish grey, and there were tsunamis of nausea rolling at the corner of his consciousness.

“Shit,” he started, and then threw up all over the bed.

“Ugh, really Jim?  You couldn’t have waited a moment for me to get you a baggie or something?” came a familiar voice.

Jim swallowed, feeling very vile.  “‘Lo Bones,” he said hoarsely, slumping back into the pillows.

“Don’t hello me,” McCoy said, bustling to the side of his bed and gingerly lifting the vomit covered comforter off Jim’s chest.  Luckily, Jim had managed to direct the majority of the contents of his stomach onto the blanket, rather than his shirt-front.  The blanket and its unsavory contents were thrown onto the floor, and Jim was given a fresh comforter and a glass of water.

Jim ignored them as a sudden thought came to him.  “Bones!” he shouted as much as he was able.  “Bones, I have stuff that Pike _needs_ to fucking know.  I need to tell him-”

“Calm down, he probably already knows—”

“Not this he doesn’t—”

“Jesus Jim, if it’s about more aliens on this fucking planet than just calm down for a second, will you?”

“But—”

“Spock already _told_ him for christsakes.  Two days ago, if that makes you feel any better about it.”

“It doesn’t,” Jim informed him.  Then, with a dawning realization.  “Two days?  Seriously?”

 McCoy placed his hands on his hips.  “You think we just got your ass back out of thin air?  Trust me, you’re late to this party.”

Jim leaned heavily against the pillow.  “What happened?”

McCoy shrugged.  “Kidnapping and then rescue?  More aliens?  Spock with an irritable stick up his ass?  Don’t ask me, I’m just a doctor.”

“Bones,” said Jim reproachfully.

McCoy shoved the glass of water back at him.  This time, Jim took it.  “Sip _slowly_ ,” McCoy cautioned as he went to wash off the original blanket and then placed it, sopping wet, into a plastic bag.

Jim sipped, trying to rid his mouth of the acid-taste.  It was hard to swallow, and he kind of wanted to spit the water out.  But, mindful of what McCoy would probably do to him if he did, he resisted.

It was as he was carefully placing the glass down onto the bedside table, hands wobbly, that the door opened.  Jim had to force his closing eyes open again as the unmistakable form of Spock filled the doorway.

And kept filling the doorway.

“Don’t just stand there,” Jim said, hating how his voice sounded so weak.  “I’m guessing you’re the one responsible for saving my ass?”  He beckoned.  “Come over here.”

Spock obliged him until he was beside Jim’s bed.  He stood, his gaze shuttered, looking down at Jim.   His mouth formed a thin line across his face.

“Thanks,” said Jim, meaning it.  “I don’t really know what happened, but thanks.”

Spock’s shoulders relaxed infinitesimally.  “I did nothing for you that you would not have done for me.”

“They um,” Jim licked dry lips.  “While I was there, they said some shit about you.  And, and about me.”

Spock frowned.  “I would never knowingly betray you.”

Jim looked up quickly.  “How do you know that’s what they said?” he said, and cringed at how suspicious his voice sounded.

Spock stepped back a little.  “Gaila informed me of the interrogation techniques they used upon you.”

“Gaila?” Jim said sharply.  “Who is that?”

Spock looked uncomfortable, like this conversation was not going at all the way he wanted it to.  “She is one of the Orions— the aliens,” he amended, “one of those who apprehended you.”

“What,” said Jim, flatly.  He fisted the sheets at his sides, looking down and away from Spock.  He could hear water running in the bathroom, and McCoy’s off key humming.

Spock shook his head.  “No, I have not been clear.  She was an . . . informer?  A spy?  Yes, that is the right word.”  He nodded, so uncharacteristically earnest, trying to catch Jim’s angry gaze.  “She assisted us greatly in our escape.”  His face darkened a little.  “Though I must admit, I still do not trust her entirely.”

“I think there must be some stuff to this story that I’m missing,” Jim said, still not trusting himself to look at Spock.  He felt odd.  Betrayed, almost.  And angry.  He had lied, desperate, with very fiber of his being on Spock’s behalf, and in return, Spock collaborated with one of his tormentors?

“It is likely,” Spock agreed.

Jim still did not meet his eyes.   He played with the fringes on his blanket.  “I’m kind of tired,” he said after a moment or two of silence.  “I think you’d probably better go.”

Spock was quiet for a moment.  “If you wish,” he said finally, with a short nod.  He turned and headed for the door, closing it softly behind it.

With a sigh, Jim lay back and stared at the ceiling.

This friendship.  This _thing_ with Spock was getting complicated.  One minute he wanted desperately to see him, the next he couldn’t wait to get away.  Jim lay his arm over his face.  Was there a guidebook or something for this shit?  How To Be Friends With An Alien Without Fucking It Up?  He snorted.  Probably not.

“Jim, you want more water?” McCoy asked, coming back into the room.  His shirtsleeves were rolled up, but still splattered a bit.  “Whatever they gave you took a hellish time getting out of your system; water can only help.”

Jim conjured up a smile for him.  “No,” he said.  “I’m good, thanks.”

McCoy folded his arms, but didn’t force the issue.

“Bones . . .” Jim started.  McCoy rolled his eyes at the nickname, but otherwise waited for him to finish.  “Bones, how did I get here?”

McCoy sighed, and came to sit down on the edge of Jim’s bed.  “You disappeared,” he said bluntly.  “And then two days later, Spock got a ransom note.  He didn’t tell anyone, the asshole, just went to where he was told to go.”

“He didn’t _tell_ anyone?” Jim said, disbelieving.

McCoy grinned.  “You should’ve heard the shouting Pike did when he got back with you and that— I don’t know what exactly she is, but that alien woman.  And then when Pike was done, Uhura went off on him.  It was beautiful.”

Jim looked down again.  “Right, Spock said.”

“Pike goes, ‘Oh, friend of yours, Spock?’ and your Vulcan, he just looks like he can’t decide whether to say his usual spiel of ‘oh no, Vulcans do not have friends.  We have only passing acquaintances and robots.’  Or if he wanted to turn tail and run the other way.”

Jim couldn’t help laughing at McCoy’s terrible imitation, even though it made his chest hurt.

“Anyway, he said he had gone to bring you back, and some other bullshit about them threatening to kill the lot of us if he didn’t go alone.  I’m not so sure I buy that.”

Jim was quiet for a moment.  “And you guys aren’t worried they’ll just come after us here at the hotel?  If they already left a note for Spock, they know where we are, right?”

McCoy nodded.  “That’s the first thing I said, I was all for getting the hell out of here before something worse happened.  But that- that green woman-” he struggled for a moment.  “See the thing is, she’s the same kind of alien as those who had you, right?  Only, those _Orions_ or whatever Spock called them, they’re not unified like Spock’s kind of alien.  So from what I’ve got, she’s working for someone else and those who even knew Spock and you were in Tokyo, were the ones she was spying on.  So when they blew up the building—”

“Spock blew up a _building_?” Jim interrupted.  “What, seriously?”

“She blew it up,” McCoy emphasized.  He checked himself.  “Although Spock did have a little dirty bomb he’d cooked up for – and I’m quoting this – ‘negotiation.’”

“They blew up a building,” Jim said weakly.  He reached his hand out for the glass of water and took a very deep drink.  “And Spock built a bomb.  Go on.”

“So anyway, the aliens who knew where we all were hanging out, are all out of the picture, except for Gaila—”

“That’s the other one?  The woman?”  Jim passed his hand over his face.

“Yeah.  You know, Spock said she’s spying for someone but he’s pretty tight lipped about why or what, although he had to tell Pike of course.  There’s supposed to be some sort of conference with all of us, once you’re up.”

Jim couldn’t decide whether to be outraged or amused by Spock’s obstinacy.  “I guess this is a sort of, ‘the enemy of my enemy’ type thing?”

“I guess,” said McCoy, looking doubtful.

Jim shifted to make himself more comfortable.  The nausea had mostly faded by now, but his body felt oddly achy all over, as if he’d had a bad bout of the flu.  “So when’s this conference thing supposed to happen?”

McCoy stood and stretched.  “Depends on you, I guess.  Whenever you’re feeling up to it.”  He tapped the side of Jim’s cheek.  “Open your mouth.”

Jim wrinkled his nose, but did it anyway.  McCoy peered inside.

“Well, that’s good,” he said.  He stepped back, indicating for Jim to close his mouth.

“What?”

McCoy had already reached for Jim’s water glass with, Jim was almost one hundred percent certain, the intent to fill it to the brim.

“Your mouth looks like it’s mostly back to normal.  You know your tongue was bright purple?”

Jim stared at him.  “What, really?”

“Would I make that shit up?  It was all swollen too, but it looks like it’s gone down to normal size.”

Jim swallowed, his tongue feeling suddenly too big.  “Ew,” he said.

“I’ll say,” McCoy agreed.  He snorted.  “Damn alien drugs.  Did they just keep you drugged up the entire time?”

Jim hesitated for a second as a flood of unwelcome images assaulted him.  He forced them back.  No time now to worry about how they knew what they knew about him.  Besides, a lot of what they said was bullshit.  They didn’t . . . It didn’t matter.  It was in the past.

“No,” he said, aware that his voice sounded strange.  “No, they didn’t.”

McCoy looked concerned.  “Are you— did they—” he whistled out a breath through his teeth in frustration.  “What I mean to say,” he said, voice unaccountably gentle.  “You want to talk about it, I’m here, okay?  I’m not a pansy, I won’t freak out on you.”

“Yeah,” said Jim.  “I know.  Thanks.  It wasn’t too bad, just some shit they said.”

McCoy rested his palm on Jim’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.  “I’ve got to go update Pike,” he said.  “Take some time to rest, okay?”

“Yeah,” said Jim.  “Okay.”

McCoy let his hand drop, and turned to leave.

“Bones,” Jim said, suddenly feeling very urgent, like he had to just _tell_ somebody.  Like he couldn’t let those aliens have the last word on it.  “I was, um.  You know I was at Tarsus IV?”

There, he had said it.  Not so bad.

McCoy turned back around.  His gaze landed on Jim’s pinched face, and traveled over his tense form.

“No,” he said, and bless him, his voice was still gentle and quiet, like Jim was something that needed to be watched over, like he was something precious.  Even if Jim had confessed to being sent to the most infamous re-training camps in the country.  “I didn’t know that.”

“My mom,” Jim said.  “She got caught by the Bureau for doing . . .” he shook his head.   “I don’t know what.  But they sent us there.  As punishment.  I was maybe, eleven?”

McCoy shook his head.  “Those fuckers,” he said, and Jim was glad for the fierceness in his voice.  “That must have been the worst.”

Jim shrugged.  He felt brittle, like glass, but also strong, like the molecules were slowly rearranging themselves into a tougher, harder form.

“I did stuff there,” he said, very quietly.  “And when I got out, the record was sealed.  They said I was a model citizen, that they’d never use it against me.”

“They’re liars,” McCoy said lowly, leaning his side against the wall.  “Fucking liars.”

“It was sealed,” Jim repeated.  And then he looked up, his eyes locking with McCoy’s.  “But those aliens – they knew.  They knew all about it.  They talked about it to me .”  The corners of his eyes burned, but Jim ignored it.  “How could they know?”

McCoy exhaled.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “It’s all fucked up and tangled together, isn’t it?  I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

“Yeah,” said Jim.  “Yeah, it is.”  He closed his eyes.

“Jim,” said McCoy.

“Yeah?”

There was a beat of silence, then.  “I won’t tell anyone.”

Jim gave him a small smile.  “I know you won’t.”

McCoy was still for a moment, and Jim almost thought he had left.  Then he said.  “Your mom?”

Jim kept his eyes squeezed shut.  He shook his head.  “I don’t know,” he whispered.

There was more silence, and then Jim heard the quiet opening and closing of a door as McCoy left.

Jim reached up surreptitiously to brush at his cheek.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The conference with Gaila and Spock was an almost déjà vu of Spock’s interrogation aboard ship.

Gaila was – and there was seriously no other way to put this – hot.  She was smoking.  Sexy.  The works.  And she smelled _fantastic_.

“You need to take more pheromone suppressants,” Spock said in a kind of growly voice to her, noticing Jim’s avid gaze.

She shrugged.  “I took a double dose yesterday.  Besides, he smells mostly like _you_ , so I don’t see what you’re so pissy about.  I’d never tap something that smells like Vulcan.  Too risky.”

Spock went even more rigid.

Pike rubbed at his temples and sent a sidelong glance to Jim, who was looking between Spock and Gaila like they had just had a conversation about him that went completely over his head.

“Anyway,” Uhura said finally.  “Gaila, you said you had something to show us.”

Gaila beamed.  “Oh, yes,” she said.  She reached into a bag below the table, and carefully withdrew what looked like a potted plant.  It had alternating waxy green leaves, and several dainty white flowers, each with six petals.  There was one bright red berry hanging off the end of a green stem.  “The fate of your planet,” she said dramatically, “mostly has to do with this.”

There were numerous doubtful looks from the humans around the table.  Spock crossed his arms, not even trying to hide his annoyance.

“There is no need for theatrics,” he said.

“Vulcans are no fun,” said Gaila to the rest of the group.

“Orions—” started Spock, scathingly, but he was interrupted by Chekov.

“What is an Orion?”

“I am,” said Gaila.

“Hold on,” said Jim.  “I could’ve sworn the guy who got the jump on me was orange.  You’re green.”

“Oh yes, and humans never have different skin tones,” said Gaila.   “Just us non-humans.”

“Generally, the color of an Orion’s skin – orange, green, or grey – is indicative of their caste,” said Spock.  “With green skin, Gaila would be considered a second caste citizen.”

“Well, someone’s been studying up,” said Gaila, and now she sounded a lot less friendly.

“If we could get back to the issue at hand,” Uhura interrupted.

“Yeah, yeah.”  Gaila waved her hand lazily.  Then she looked down at the table and frowned.  “Where’d the plant go?”

“I have it,” said Sulu, who was down at the far end of the table.

Gaila gave him an appraising look.  “You like plants?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Sulu, blinking a bit in surprise.  Gaila jerked her head to indicate the one he held.

“Know what that one is?”

Lips pursed, Sulu bent his head to examine it.  He brushed gentle fingers along the smooth stem, lifted leaves, and trailed the side of his palm against the gentle white blossoms.   Gaila watched him all the while, a small smirk playing around the corners of her mouth.  Finally, Sulu looked up.

“No,” he said.  “I don’t know what it is.  It’s weird.  I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Right in one,” said Gaila.  “At least you know enough about it to know that.  A lot of people can’t even tell.”

Sulu slid the potted plant back down across the table.  As it passed by Jim, he stuck his hand out and stopped it.  With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he gave the plant a once over.

“I’m guessing that you might recognize it though, James Kirk,” said Gaila.  He glanced up at her and was a little bit surprised to see something actually resembling sympathy in her face.

He cleared his throat, and shoved the plant the rest of the way towards her.  At his side, Spock gave him a quick look, eyebrows knitted together, which Jim ignored.  “Maybe,” he said.  He kept his face as blank as possible, no matter that even a glimpse of the plant made him want to send it smashing to the ground.

(Like he had been smashed to the ground, literally, figuratively, grubbing in the dirt, hungry, watering rows and rows of the things, unable to drink the water himself, frightened, angry—)

Gaila gave him a very slight nod as she drew the pot towards her.

“Can we start getting to the part of this where you explain what the fuck is going on?” said McCoy, voice polite enough to crack steel.

“Yeah,” said Chapel.  She ran a distracted hand through her now spiky pink hair.  “I’ve got an appointment today.”

“Because tattoo appointments are so much more important than the fate of the world,” Sulu shot back at her.  He crossed his arms.  “I want to hear more about the plant.”

“Only you are the one caring about plants,” Chekov argued.  “I want to hear about why there are green and orange aliens running around this planet.  I thought Mr. Spock was the only one allowed?”

“That’s enough!” Jim said suddenly, half to get everyone to shut up, half just to stop his own clamoring memories.  Everyone quieted and stared at him.  He glared at the collective group.  “Let them finish, then we can ask questions.”  He turned to Gaila and to Spock next to him.  “Keep talking.”

Spock and Gaila locked eyes for a moment,

“You first, sweetheart,” said Gaila.  Spock’s lips grew thinner at her words, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing his ire.  He stood.

“As I have already informed you, I was sent to this planet by the Vulcan High Command,” he said, hands clasped behind his back.

“Yeah, and you wouldn’t tell us why,” McCoy groused.  “Trust me, we remember.”

Spock sent him a brief scowl, then spoke mainly to the rest of the group.  “I was sent to ascertain, if possible, the reason behind humans’ technological lag.  According to our anthropologists, your species was supposed to have reached warp capability many years ago.”

“What?  That’s it?” Everyone looked at Sulu in surprise.  He turned a little red at the attention, but continued on.  “You couldn’t just say that before?  Really?”

“I could not speak of my mission before, for fear of endangering it,” Spock said stiffly, not making eye contact with anyone, but in particular refusing to look at Jim.  “We had begun to suspect outside-Earth interference and I did not know what, if any, seemingly innocuous form it might take.”  He cast a wry look over to Gaila, who sat rather primly, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded protectively around the plant on top of the table.  “As you can see.  That is no longer the case.”

“And I think that’s my cue,” Gaila said, standing as Spock sat down.  She shot him a smile, which he responded to with an artfully done blank stare.

“Finally,” Sulu muttered.

Gaila smiled.  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d say that it’s nice to be visiting you here on Earth, but I’ve actually lived here quite a while so I’ll just skip to the point.”  She held up the plant again.  “In my language, we call this _hain-enela_ , which means ‘white desire.’  It’s a finicky plant, rare on my home planet.  Prefers soils high in nitrates and phosphates, which, coincidentally enough, Earth soil has an abundance of.”  She put the plant down and one by one met the gaze of every person at the conference table.  “So,” she said softly, “anyone see where this might be going?”

It was Uhura who spoke first.  “You grow it here,” she said.

“Close,” said Gaila.  Then she reconsidered.  “Well yeah, we do grow it here.  But that’s not everything.”

“Perhaps an introduction into Orion culture might make matters clearer,” Spock said dryly.

Gaila pointed a finger at him.  “Vulcans don’t know the first thing about Orion culture, trust me on this.”

“We have sufficient data regarding the Orion Syndicate’s numerous criminal operations,” Spock replied acidly.  “Given that it is often the Vulcan fleet freeing prisoners from Orion slaver ships.”

Gaila shrugged.  “No society is perfect,” she said.  “Not even Vulcan.”  At Spock’s frustrated exhale she continued.  “The Command keeps it quiet, but I know a captain who ran _hain-enela_ through Vulcan Space..”

“The plant contains medicinal properties,” Spock said stiffly.

“Oh my god,” Sulu blurted out.  He had been sitting at the end of the table, deep in quiet thought.  Now as he spoke, hand shaking slightly, he pointed at the plant.  “That’s a drug, isn’t it?”

“Technically,” said Gaila into the very abrupt silence, “it is a very rare flower.”

Sulu shook his head.  “You know what I mean,” he said.

“Yeah,” Gaila said, her face suddenly very serious.  “I do know what you mean.  And you’re right, of course.”  She caressed the delicate white petals.  “It’s not just a drug, it’s one of the most sought after drugs in the system.”  She brought out a bag filled halfway with gold-brown crystals.  “You can even find it on this charming little backwater you call home.”

They stared at the bag.

Finally, McCoy broke the silence.  “So you’re telling me,” he said, “that gold dirt comes from alien plants?  And that Earth is basically one big intergalactic poppy field?”

“Just one kind of alien plant,” said Gaila.

“Oh, that makes everything so much better,” McCoy drawled.  “Anything else us poor souls living here ought to know about?”

“Well, we do control all of your planetary governments,” she said, half sweetly, half seriously.   Then she frowned.  “Except United East Africa, for some reason.  Don’t ask me what that’s about.”

“I’m being serious,” snapped McCoy.

“So am I,” she returned.  “This isn’t a new thing, Human.  Earth’s been the premier place to grow _hain-enela_ for over two hundred years.  All those wars?  All the work prisons?  The retraining camps?”  Her gaze passed over to Jim.  “They all revolve around this.”  She indicated the plant.  “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

Jim slammed his fist on the table.  “What, seriously?” he snapped.  He rounded on Spock.  “I thought you said we were in the Vulcan space neighborhood.  Couldn’t you guys do something about this?”

“We did not know,” Spock said quietly.  “We never suspected . . .”

“Vulcan cares for nothing but herself,” Gaila interrupted, voice brisk.  “They only care now because if Romulus finds out about it, they’ll lose face.”

“That’s not true,” Spock said between gritted teeth.

“I don't believe this,” Jim continued, “This is insane!  All – everything on Earth – the Bureau, the wars, fucking _Tarsus_ ,” he spat out the last word like a curse.  “Because of that stupid, fucking, plant?”

“Jim,” Spock said, voice soft.  “Jim, you have been ill.  You must calm down.”

“Don’t,” Jim warned, leaning away from him.  “Don’t tell me to be calm.”

“Jim-”

“No.”  Jim pushed his chair back and stood.  He looked at the other humans, a fierce light in his eyes.  “We have to fucking fix this.  I don’t know how, but it has to be done.”

Pike, who had remained so quiet as to be invisible, finally spoke up.  “Anyone disagree with Kirk’s assessment of the situation?”  
No one budged.

“Good,” Pike said.  “Then we’re all dismissed.  Next meeting we’ll start brainstorming.”  He grinned, showing teeth.  “We’re a very destructive species, I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

“Yeah you are,” muttered Gaila.  “Why do you think the Syndicate’s been channeling your aggression into planetary wars?”

Spock looked a little ill at the thought, but also resigned to it.  “Humans,” he said.

“Dismissed,” Pike barked

  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Spock found Jim not in his room, but by the side of the indoor pool, on the very top floor.   He was looking out through the glass wall at the bright lights of the city.  When Spock entered the room, Jim shifted his head the slightest bit, as if to see who was there, and then returned to his gazing.

Spock stepped further into the room, onto the green-tiled floor, until he came to a halt, shoulder to shoulder with Jm.  They both stared straight ahead.  Finally, when the silence became almost unbearable, Spock spoke.

“Are you very angry with me?” he asked.

Jim sighed.  “No,” he said.  Then, “Yes.  Maybe.  I don’t know.”

“If you would perhaps be able to tell me what I have . . . done,” Spock said delicately, as if afraid that Jim would turn and snap at him at any moment.  “I might perhaps, make amends?”

Jim tilted his head back towards the ceiling.  It too was glass and through it and the light pollution, Spock could make out the faintest of stars.  He felt suddenly very homesick.

“You should have told me.”  Jim’s voice.  Not accusing, but flat.  To Spock, the apathy in it was almost worse.  “About why you were here.”

“I could not.”

“You should’ve anyway.”

“Jim . . .” Spock turned to face him, desperate for him to understand.  “I could not risk your entire planet’s future.  If word had reached the Orions before it did—”

“I would never betray you.”  Spock’s own words, thrown back at him.  They tasted of bile.

“I did not betray you,” he said.  “I’ve told you now, have I not?  I couldn’t—”

“What, couldn’t trust me?” Jim said, voice as sharp as the nails digging into his palms.  “After all the shit we’ve been through, you couldn’t even do that?”

“It was not an issue of trust,” Spock said.  “I do trust you.  I trust you with everything.”

“Then why do you care so much about this planet?” Jim demanded.  “Why did you come here?  Why is its future so, damn, important to you?”  And Spock could hear the unasked query too, as loud as if it had been whispered directly into his ear.

_What is here that you care about more than me?_

Spock sucked in a breath.  On Vulcan, his mother’s heritage had been forbidden knowledge to anyone but the highest authorities, but here?

Spock’s silence went on for too long.  Jim turned away.  Spock grabbed at his arm, pulled him back.

“Let me, the fuck, go,” Jim snarled, wrenching his arm free.  Belying his actions, he then stalked towards Spock, crowding him up against the glass wall.  Spock swallowed.  “You,” growled Jim.  “You are so fucking irritating, you know that?  You and your- your damn Zen face and always, _always_ , doing something stupid because of me— Jesus, I can’t believe you built a fucking _bomb_.  Nearly got yourself _killed_ —”

“It is not stupid,” Spock said weakly.  Jim’s face was very close to his.  Spock could almost begin to count his eyelashes.  He could feel the heat of Jim’s solid body.  Spock breathed in his scent, deeply, unconsciously.

“And you never tell me _shit_ ,” Jim continued.  They were almost chest-to-chest now.  Spock’s back hit the wall.  In the back of his mind, he hoped very fervently that human engineering was not as primitive as it sometimes appeared; he had no desire to fall through the glass.

“And sometimes I just want to—” Jim made a sound of utter frustration, and Spock had no time to think, no time to react as Jim lunged forward and smashed his lips against Spock’s own.

Kissing, Spock thought dazedly, even as his body grew hot and Jim’s hands inched down to grasp his in a facsimile of the Vulcan way.  Human kissing.  What.  Did Jim-?

Jim was a greedy kisser, Spock thought.  He nipped at Spock’s lips, fitting their bodies closer and closer together, as if attempting to merge them through sheer force of will.  He insinuated one of his legs between Spock’s and rocked a little, side to side, and Spock felt something liquid and heated respond within him.  He groaned.

“Jim,” he gasped, as Jim moved his mouth away and then back against his.  “Jim, Jim, Jim.”

And then suddenly Jim was stumbling away, limbs awkward and flailing in panic.  Spock felt achingly bereft.

“I’m sorry!” Jim exclaimed.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Spock.  I don’t know — I mean, we’re kind of aliens, to each other anyway, and I know it’s kind of weird but you—” he licked dry lips and made an aborted gesture towards Spock.  “And I don’t know anything about this . . . this part of your culture and oh god,” he looked suddenly very horrified.  “Do you even have a — I mean . . .” he trailed off, looking down and away and anywhere but Spock’s groin.

“If you are referring to a penis,” Spock said primly, moving slowly yet inexorably towards Jim.  “Then you might be interested to know that Vulcan and human genitalia are very similar.”

Jim turned a darker shade of red.  “Oh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Um.”

“Furthermore,” Spock continued, now in Jim’s personal space.  “My genitalia in particular are very similar.”  He hesitated, then continued with a firm voice, “Since I am half human.”

Jim froze.  “What?” he whispered.

“My mother,” Spock said.  He cocked his head.  “So you see, I have little quibble with your . . . unorthodox, desires.  Especially if they pertain to me.”

Jim looked like he wasn’t sure which part of that statement he should be more dumbfounded by.  “I’m sorry,” he said weakly, grabbing onto the trunk of a potted palm tree for support.  “Run that one by me again?”

Spock straightened his posture, raised his chin.  “I am half human.”

“Half . . .” Jim seemed to shake himself.  He fixed Spock with a look.  “What— you— What?  _Really_?  How the _fuck_?”

Spock drew in a breath.  “The science necessary for my creation took five years of intense research at the Vulcan Science Academy.  Additionally—”

“No, no,” Jim waved his hand, though still looking a bit shell-shocked.  “I mean— how the fuck did your parents even meet?  _Who_ — is it your mom?  I bet it’s your mom, you said your dad was an Ambassador, so it’s got to be your mom.”

“Jim,” said Spock.

“This is so fucking weird.  It’s like I live in a soap opera.  Spock, we’re a fucking soap opera.  This is so weird.  You’re half human!  Half human!  Did they make you in a lab?”

“I do not understand that reference.  You are correct however, my mother is human, and she currently resides on Vulcan with my father.”

“How—” Jim started, then seemed to reconsider.  “Together?”

“Yes.”

“As in like, married?”

“Yes,” Spock said patiently.

“No mind control?”

Spock gave him a very offended look, and crossed his arms.

“Sorry, I thought—” Jim swallowed.  “I thought you guys didn’t do emotions?”

Spock stared down at him with dark eyes.  “That is a peculiar thing to ask after you have kissed me not once, but twice,” he said.

Jim squirmed a little.  Spock gentled his tone.

“My father rescued my mother during a routine survey mission, near the 5th planet of your solar system.  As she did not wish to return to her home planet—”

“Who is your mom?”

“She is, that is, I do not know if you will recognize her name.  Perhaps.”

“What’s her name?” Jim repeated.

Spock exhaled.  “Amanda,” he said.  “Amanda Grayson.”

Jim’s eyebrows furrowed.  “I feel like that name’s familiar.  Was she an astronaut?”

“Obviously,” Spock said, voice dry.  When Jim still looked puzzled, he added, “She was the only surviving crew member of the 2225 Europa mission.  My father— his ship found hers dead in space.  For him, the logical course of action was to assist her.  She had no desire to return to Earth.”

“And so then your dad just took her home and married her?” Jim said, voice kind of strangled.  “Different species and all?  You can do that?  Didn’t you say there was a secret space law?”

Spock frowned.  “Interspecies partnerships have been legal for more than one hundred years.  And I assure you, it was not so simple as that.”

“Oh,” said Jim.  Then he blinked.  “So, that’s why they sent you?”

“Yes,” Spock admitted.

“Oh,” Jim said again.  Then, “And the whole logic and emotions thing . . .”

“Vulcans – I – we are not machines,” he said.  Close enough now, and emboldened, he lifted his hand and caressed the outline of Jim’s face with his finger.  “If we desire—” and here he stumbled.  “That is not to say our ways are not different, but if my parents have survived each other for more than thirty years then I do not think that we would find such between us impossible.  Unless I have misread your intentions, of course.  I—”  He stopped at Jim’s shake of the head.

“You’re babbling,” Jim said.

“So were you,” Spock retorted.

Jim scowled, then smiled.  “Fair enough,” he allowed.  He looked at Spock.  “I don’t know where this is going,” he said, very seriously.  “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.  Also, you’re an alien— sorry, _half_ -alien and I don’t really know what the fuck that means.”

“I know,” Spock said.  He hesitated, then said.  “At times, I myself am unsure of its exact meaning. ”

Jim frowned a little.  “Still.  If we um,” he cleared his throat.  “If we accept that it is, for the moment, you know, _going_.  Might we, I don’t know, be going somewhere with a bit more privacy?”  Very slowly, he held out his hand.

Spock tilted his head, enjoying the look of brief panic on Jim’s face as he considered the proposition for what it was.

“I think,” he said finally, touching his fingers to Jim’s.  “I think we might.”

It was a fanciful thought, Spock knew, but Jim’s beaming grin could outshine the sun.

The walk back to their rooms was filled with a charged, yet somehow peaceful, silence.  Jim pulled Spock into a corner by the potted poolside plant to kiss him again, and Spock allowed it.  By the time they entered Spock’s room, they were both breathless, and Jim seemed unable to keep his hands to himself.

“You wear a lot of clothes,” he grumbled, yanking at Spock’s shirt.

“It is cold,” Spock defended, “Turn up the thermostat.”

Jim removed his own shirt, then his jeans.  Spock could not help but stare as the human – his human? – strode over to the temperature controls on the wall and pressed at the screen embedded into it.

“There,” he said, returning to Spock and sliding his hands under his shirt to feel the hard muscle beneath.  “Now you won’t freeze, my delicate desert flower.”

“I beg your pardon?” Spock said indignantly, as Jim steered him towards the bed and convinced him somehow to lie flat on it.  Spock suspected Jim’s devious mouth might have been at fault.  An embarrassing keen escaped him as Jim first kissed, then bit and then suckled at his collarbone.  “Jim!”

“What?” Jim said, clambering over Spock’s form.

“You— ah.  You are attempting to distract me.”

“Never,” Jim said, lowering himself fully onto Spock and beginning to undulate his hips the slightest bit.  Spock bit back a whimper at the sensation.

“I am a—” Jim kissed his neck.  Spock soldiered on.  “I am a touch telepath.  I can t- tell.”

Jim squeezed Spock’s hands with his own.  Spock’s eyes rolled back for a moment.

“Oh?” Jim said.

Spock had just opened his mouth to reply when an unexpected, loud crackling noise filled the air.

“WHAT in the name of anything, fucking anything?” Jim yelped twisting off of Spock to land flat on his back on floor.  Spock sat up.

The noise continued.

“Spock,” said Jim, staring at something at the opposite end of the room, sitting on Spock’s desk.  “I’m going to assume that you disabled that dirty bomb of yours that McCoy told me about.  You didn’t um, happen to turn it into a radio, did you?”

“Perhaps,” Spock said faintly, swinging his legs off the bed and walking over to the disturbance.

It was indeed his newly rebuilt radio.  And it was making noise.  Loud noise.  Spock picked it up in disbelief.

“So . . . who’s calling?” Jim said, pushing himself off the floor with a groan.  He made his way over to Spock, still clad only in his underwear.  “Can you get them to call back later?”

Spock glared at him.  Jim dropped a kiss to his shoulder.

“I should be able to,” Spock muttered, fiddling a bit.

The crackling stopped.

“Hello?” Spock said.

“ _Hello?_ ” came a very familiar voice _.  “Spock?”_

Spock sat down hard in the desk chair.

Jim looked very concerned.  “Spock,” he said.  “Please tell me that’s not your boyfriend on the other line.”

“No,” Spock said, staring straight ahead, half-hoping this was a dream.  “Worse.”

“Oh god you’re married,” said Jim.

Spock grimaced at him.  “No,” he said.  “It’s my brother.”

Jim stared first at him, then at the device.

“He’s got really awful timing,” he said finally.

Spock rolled his eyes, then pressed something.  _“Sybok_ ,” he said in terse Vulcan.  _“I read you.  This is Spock.”_


	16. Let Your Spirit Fly IV

**Let Your Spirit Fly IV**  
  
“Spock has a brother,” McCoy said.  “Really?”  
  
“I do not understand why you find such a simple fact so difficult to believe, Doctor McCoy,” said Spock absently, fidgeting with a piece of machinery.  Finally, with a last tap and a bit of a wrench to it, he nodded in satisfaction and placed it onto the table.  
  
“Sybok, can you read the signal now?”  
  
 _“Locked on,”_ came Sybok’s voice through the radio.  
  
Spock did a very rapid headcount.  “Then there are six to beam up.”  
  
There was a guttural reply, in a language Jim was coming to recognize as Vulcan.  Spock listened, then said something else in Vulcan before turning to the rest of the group.  
  
“He wishes us to wait for a moment,” he said.  “Then we may begin the transportation process.”  
  
McCoy shuffled his feet, looking like he might bolt at any moment.  “Are you sure this is safe?”  
  
“Ninety-nine point two percent,” said Spock serenely.  
  
McCoy’s face turned greyer.  “And what happens to the remaining point eight percent?” he croaked.  
  
Spock adjusted something else on his radio.  “Trust me, Doctor,” he said.  “You probably do not want to know.”  
  
McCoy’s eyes widened.  “Oh hell no,” he said, aiming to take a step back.  “I’ll skip the alien spaceship tour, if it’s all the same to—”  
  
He was cut off mid-sentence as the transporter engulfed him in a sparkling beam of light.  
  
“ . . . you,” McCoy finished as he rematerialized.  He then noticed his new surroundings.  In particular, he noticed the three beings taking up space in those surroundings.  His jaw dropped.  
  
“Ninety-nine point two percent,” Spock murmured like a complete asshole as he swept by McCoy’s frozen form and off the transporter pad.  
  
A tall form draped in brown and red robes stood next to the transporter controls.  His face very serene, he held up his palm, fingers split in the shape of a V.   The other two beings ignored them completely.  
  
“Welcome, humans,” he intoned, looking benevolent and peaceful, like he had just stepped straight out of an advertisement for a monastery.  “Live long, and prosper.”  
  
“Uh,” said Jim.  “Right back at you?”  He tried to copy the motion, but could not get his fingers to cooperate.  He settled for a weak wave.  
  
“How does he possibly speak English?” Uhura whispered in an undertone to McCoy.  McCoy shook his head.  
  
“Got me,” he mouthed back.  
  
Spock, his hand also raised, fingers separated, took a few more steps towards the figure.  He took in the sight of the well-made robes, belted at the waist with a long black cord, the calm face, and the perfect Vulcan _ta’al_.  He blinked, twice.  
  
“S-Sybok?” he faltered.  
  
“Welcome, brother,” Sybok said.  He bowed slightly.  “I am gratified to see you well.”  
  
“Sybok?” Spock repeated.  “You’re—” he did a double take.  “Are you wearing formal robes?”  
  
“Why shouldn’t his brother wear robes?” Jim murmured to McCoy in a very low voice.  “Is that bad?”  
  
“Maybe he’s a cross-dressing deviant,” McCoy muttered back.  Jim gave him a light kick in the shin.  
  
Suddenly very aware of the humans gathered behind him in a small, timid flock, yet unable to cease staring at Sybok as if he were trapped in a nightmare of very poor taste, Spock switched abruptly to their native language.  
  
“You are wearing formal robes,” Spock said again, unable to help himself.  
  
“Indeed,” said Sybok, in passable imitation of their father.  
  
“You are behaving as one who is Vulcan.”  
  
“I am Vulcan.”  
  
“I must admit that I have had my doubts.  Are you . . . ill?”  
  
“I am in perfect health.”  
  
Spock had his opinions on that too, but figured that now was not the time to air them.  He examined Sybok again from perfectly groomed head to sandaled toe.  This time, he noticed the small smirk playing around the corner of Sybok’s mouth.  A terrible suspicion entered his mind.  Then again, that would be just like Sybok.  He set his shoulders.  Very well, two could play at this game.  
  
“I see,” Spock said gravely, straightening.  “Then I must extend my congratulations.  It would appear that father has finally succeeded in lobotomizing you.”  
  
That finally got Sybok’s proper attention.  He glared at Spock for a moment, then burst out into a hearty guffaw.  Spock’s shoulders relaxed infinitesimally.  
  
“Ah, Spock,” Sybok said, grinning.  (Spock shuddered at the thought that he had ever wished to see such emotionalism ever again).  “You’re getting quicker.”  
  
“You stole those robes from father, didn't you?” Spock returned dryly, avoiding Sybok’s attempts to entrap him in an embrace with practiced ease.  
  
“I might have,” Sybok hedged, giving up the hug and running a fond hand alongside the fabric of his robes instead.  “But I thought, well, I couldn’t go to Earth representing Vulcan in shabby robes!  It just wouldn’t do!”  
  
Spock’s head snapped up at that.  “And are you representing Vulcan?”  
  
“Why don’t you introduce me to your human friends?” Sybok said brightly.  He stepped around Spock to stand in front of a dazed McCoy.  “Howdy, partner,” he said in English, grasping McCoy’s hand and giving it a firm shake.  
  
“Sybok,” growled Spock.  
  
“What,” said McCoy, faintly, as his hand was pumped up and down in a vigorous motion.  He looked behind himself for some sort of help, but received nothing from his companions, who were frozen in a sort of horrified fascination.  
  
Sybok looked a little concerned.  He turned to Spock, English abandoned.  “Did I not pronounce it correctly?  You were always better at the human tongue than I.”  He moved on to Uhura, shaking her hand as well.  
  
Spock managed to make a strangled noise.  “What are you doing?” he hissed in Vulcan, casting a furtive glance at the other two beings in the room.  They were Romulan, it was true, but that did not mean that they did not share certain cultural similarities with Vulcan.  “Have you no shame?”  
  
“None whatsoever,” replied Sybok, now finished with Uhura and moving on to Pike.  
  
“This is most illogical,” Spock said in frustration.  “Not to mention—”  
  
“Ah, but you missed it when you thought I had been lobotomized,” Sybok said.  “Admit it.”  He stepped in front of Jim.  
  
“Not that one,” Spock said sharply, before he could stop himself.  
  
Sybok stilled.  “And why not?” he said after a brief pause, his back to Spock.  Spock hurriedly moved to place himself between Jim and his brother.  
  
“Not this one,” he said again.  Their eyes met.  Sybok looked at him curiously for a moment.  Spock felt a brief flash of mental contact through their shared family bond, before Sybok nodded thoughtfully and stepped back, hand dropping to his side.  
  
“As you wish,” he said in a peculiar tone, giving Jim a thoughtful look.  His gaze narrowed in on Spock, as he though he was looking straight through him.  Spock tried not to fidget.  “Your travels on Sol III appear to have been very . . .” his eyes raked over Jim’s form again, “. . . interesting.”  
  
Spock swallowed.  Jim looked confused.  As Sybok pressed a comm. on the wall and spoke into it in rapid Romulan, Spock could hear Jim grumble to McCoy about how _he_ didn’t get to shake Spock’s brother’s hand, and wasn’t that just unfair?  When Spock heard McCoy answer that he was sure Jim had had many chances to shake Spock’s hand instead, Spock’s ears burned.  McCoy’s answer did not appear to mollify Jim either, who stood with his arms crossed, looking rather put out.  
  
Sybok finished his brief conference, and turned back to Spock and his group of humans.  This time, he spoke in lightly accented English.  “Again, welcome aboard the Romulan ship _Khellian_.”  He spread his arms to indicate the transporter room.  “It’s not really my ship, but I’m paying for it, so it is for now.”  
  
The transporter door swooshed open, and two Romulans stalked in.  Spock heard one of the humans – either Uhura or McCoy – give a quick intake of breath at their appearance.  With slightly ridged foreheads, in addition to their pointed ears and the various tattoos plastered all along their skin, they were much more alien in appearance to a human than Spock, or even Gaila.   
  
“Sybok, what lies are you telling those miserable creatures?” the taller Romulan demanded.  He placed his hands on his hips.  His worn black trousers, meeting boots of some sort at mid-calf, contrasted with the fine threads of his red and gold jacket.  
  
Sybok shrugged.  “Everything horrible I can think of about you specifically, Mirok.”  
  
“Vulcan scum,” Mirok said, although without any real bite to it.  
  
“Uncivilized brute of a Romulan,” Sybok agreed.  He indicated Spock.  “This is my brother, Spock.  As you can see, he is a model of Vulcan virtue.”  
  
“I see,” Mirok said sourly.   He then stepped around Spock to examine the humans.  “And these?”  
  
“Denizens of Sol III,” Sybok said with aplomb.  He grinned.  “I think you would find their planet most amusing.”  
  
“They look as though a child could break them in half.”  He paced for a moment, stopping in front of Uhura.  “You do not look to be as strong as a Romulan female,” he informed her.  “Does your planet breed weaklings?”  He glanced at Spock.  “Translate, Vulcan.”  
  
Spock resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall.  He settled his attention on Uhura instead.  “The charming gentleman would like to inquire if Earth ‘breeds weaklings,’” he said tonelessly.  Then added wryly as Uhura’s eyebrows lifted in affront, “I suspect that he has not been educated as to your planetary history.”  
  
McCoy sputtered.  “That asshole!” he exclaimed, voice indignant.  
  
Two spots of color appeared on Uhura’s cheeks.  She crossed her arms, eyes narrowed.  “Please tell the charming gentleman,” she said, voice saccharine sweet, “I would be pleased to introduce his – no doubt very small – testicles to the very weakest part of my fist.”  Her voice became sharp enough to cut steel.  “Rest assured, he can be entirely certain of never having children afterwards.”  
  
McCoy and Jim both choked out a laugh.  Pike managed to keep a mostly straight face, although his eyes were dancing.  
  
With an amount of cheerfulness unbecoming of a Vulcan, Spock translated.  
  
Mirok looked comically enraged for the briefest of moments, and then he let out a short bark of laughter.  “Good enough!” he declared.  Then he looked back at Sybok.  “All right, you miserable failure of a Vulcan.  You promised me a war.  Where is it?”  
  
“Careful, Mirok,” said Sybok, amused.  “You’re starting to sound like a Klingon.”  
  
Mirok snarled and spat.  “Don’t be insulting,” he said.  
  
The second Romulan finally spoke.  With a jolt of surprise, Spock realized that despite the solid build, short hair, and masculine clothing, this Romulan was female.  
  
“Were we not supposed to be bringing more of these humans aboard?” she asked, the word _human_ dripping from her voice with disdain.  
  
That was apparently enough for McCoy.  “Could somebody please tell us peasants what the hell is going on?” he finally broke in, lips thinned in irritation.  He glared at the Romulans, and then at Spock and Sybok too, just for a good measure.  “Weren’t we going to have a meeting on this fancy ship?  Can we maybe get to it?  We don’t have all day.”  
  
Sybok gave him a long, measuring glance.  He flicked his gaze over to Spock.  “Tell the rest of the humans – and the Orion – to stand by,” he said after a moment.  “We’ll beam them up shortly.”  His expression turned long-suffering as he turned to Mirok.  “And once we have the rest of the humans here,” he said in Romulan, “we can get started on planning your little war.”  
  
Mirok looked positively gleeful at the thought.  “In the war room then,” he said.  “I will be waiting.”  He jerked his head towards the Romulan female, and they left together.  
  
Spock brushed by Sybok with his arm.  “Your Romulan companion appears to be aptly demonstrating the attributes of a sadist,” he murmured.  
  
Sybok gave a little shrug.  “It’s their national pastime,” he said.  “I’ve learned to work with it.”  He raised his voice.  “Stand by to transport more humans aboard ship.”  
  
“Aye, sir,” said a Romulan at the controls.  Sybok winked at Spock.  
  
“Romulans are such a fascinating species, don’t you agree?  Even the lowest of their deadbeat smugglers operate with military discipline.”  
  
Spock bit back a sigh.  “Father is going to disown you,” he told Sybok.  
  
Sybok shrugged.  “It is of little consequence,” he said.  “I have funds stored away, and I have already paid these brigands.”   He reached out and rested his fingers on Spock’s meldpoints for a moment in an affectionate gesture.  “Perhaps you would think it overly emotional, but I believed that your safety trumped any remnants of a good opinion regarding me that father might have had.”  
  
Spock swallowed past a lump in his throat.  “I cannot find it within myself to argue with you in that regard,” he admitted.  “It would not have taken long before the Orions again had me at their mercy.”  
  
“Oh good,” said Sybok.  “I would hate to think I started a war with the Syndicate for nothing.”  He looked thoughtful for a moment.  “Plus, Romulans are much more biddable if you start talking about family honor.”  
  
Spock gave him a look of mild disgust.  “Manipulation is never remembered well, Sybok.”  
  
Sybok wagged his finger at him.  “Now, now.  You’re the one profiting from this, little brother.  You don’t get to criticize my methods.”  He frowned.  “Or my companions.”  A beat, “Or my life choices.”  
  
“Your wardrobe?”  
  
“It’s father’s, not mine,” Sybok said.  “And you wouldn’t dare criticize him on anything.  I know you.”  
  
“You should have picked the blue outer robe, that shade of brown does not suite you,” Spock sniped back.  He walked over to Jim and company, leaving Sybok sputtering behind him.  
  
“The meeting room should be this way,” Spock told them.  He looked behind his shoulder over at Sybok .  “Your direction would be appreciated,” he said.  
  
Sybok dropped the fold of his outer robe where he had been comparing it to the skin tone of his hand.  
  
“I suggest we wait until all your humans have been collected,” he said.  “I do not want to frighten them with my majesty were I to greet them alone.”  
  
Spock tilted his head.  “That is almost logical of you, Sybok.”  
  
Sybok gave a harrumph.  “I will have to smile the next time I see T’Pau to make up for it.”  
  
Spock gave in and rolled his eyes.  
  
A second group of humans, including Chekov, Sulu and Chapel, were also beamed aboard.  Gaila followed in the third, and final, group.  There was a small hiccup when it transpired that she and Sybok had actually, already met.  
  
“You didn’t tell me your brother was _this_ Sybok,” she accused Spock as soon as she finished rematerializing.  McCoy, who had covered his hands with his eyes during each subsequent transport, peeked between his fingers to watch the unfolding drama.  
  
“I did not think it was necessary,” Spock said stiffly, deciding that he really, really did not want to know.  
  
“Hello, my dear.”  Sybok gave her a little wave.  “I have recuperated well from the last time you shot me.  Thank you for asking.”  
  
“I’ll do it again,” she said coolly.  
  
Spock, who was unsure if this exchange lowered or raised his opinion of Gaila, hastily cleared his throat.  
  
“Sybok, if you would direct us to the ah, War Room.”  He winced a little at the terminology.  “We do not have much time.”  
  
Sybok cast a nervous glance in Gaila’s direction, then stood a little straighter, drawing his borrowed robes briskly around his body like a silken shield.  “Of course,” he said.  “This way.”  
  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
“Before anything happens on my ship, someone explain the Orion to me,” said Mirok.

“The Orion can speak for herself,” said Gaila.  She flashed sharp teeth in a smile.  “In all three dialects of Romulan, too.”

Chekov leaned over to McCoy.  “I have met first one, then two and now many aliens.”  He frowned.  “They are not as I expected them to be.  As a boy.”

“You expected to meet aliens as a boy?” McCoy murmured back.  “No wonder they kicked you out of Russo-China.”

Sulu snickered.

“This is not funny,” said Chekov, primly.

“Tell your humans to keep quiet!” the female Romulan from before snapped at Spock.

“They are not my humans,” Spcok said quietly.  “As sentient beings, they speak as they please.”

“Spock, what’s going on?” said Jim.

“Seriously,” said Uhura.

Spock forced away his irritation, locking it into a hard ball at his center.  “Before we proceed with the meeting, Mirok—” he nodded to indicate the Romulan, “— wishes to know why Gaila is here.”

Jim furrowed his brow.  “Didn’t your brother explain that to him?  Uh, Mirok?”

“Apparently not,” Spock said.

“Right,” Jim said.  He looked over at Pike, and they seemed to share some kind of communication that Spock was not privy to.  Then with a nod, Jim stood.  “Spock, translate for me, would you?”

“What are you planning?” Spock asked, seeing Mirok’s expression beginning to cloud with anger.  Jim could not possibly know that his actions were flying in the face of several Romulan cultural mores regarding guests at a war conference.  Spock was not too eager to discover what Mirok’s response would be to the insult.

“Just trust me on this,” Jim said, impatient.

Spock swallowed a little, mouth suddenly dry at the look in Jim’s eye.  “Very well,” he said, just about managing to make his words sound at their normal cadence.

“Great, thanks.”  Jim gave him a quick grin.  “You’re the best.”

The words made something warm blossom in Spock’s side.  “Speak your part, Jim,” he said, voice stronger.  “I will make sure you are heard.”

“All right, listen up,” Jim said loudly.  He looked at Spock, who gave a mental start, then translated.  “Thanks for having us on board, she’s a lovely ship, Captain Mirok.”  He made a little bow.  Spock stared at Jim incredulously.  The Romulan ship was dingy, and smelled slightly of sulfur.  The finishing on the table they sat at was starting to peel.  Spock had, in fact, been beginning to wonder if the weapons were even viable.  Jim made a little shooing motion at Spock.  With a sense of impending doom that his self of six months ago would have dismissed as ‘completely illogical’ but his current self was pretty convinced about, Spock translated.

“Anyway,” Jim continued.  “I’m sure you’re all thrilled about liberating our lovely little planet.”

“Not really,” said Mirok.

“And would like to get to it as soon as possible,” Jim continued, ignoring him.  “So I’m Jim Kirk, and here’s what’s going to happen.”  He held up his hand and began ticking off fingers.  “First, Gaila’s going to tell you all about why she’s hanging with a bunch of humans.”

Spock opened his mouth to translate.  Then pursed his lips, “Hanging?” he repeated, the little ball of irritation beginning to make itself known again.

“In the company of,” Jim clarified.

“An illogical idiom,” Spock grumbled, even as he spoke the words in Romulan.

“Then, we humans are going to speak our piece about how really, we do love each other, we’ve just been brainwashed by alien drug dealers for a hundred years.”

“Two hundred,” corrected Gaila, examining her fingernails.  She made a face at the chipped red polish on her index finger.

“Whatever,” said Jim.  “And then, we’re going to devise a fantastic plan to free Earth!  Just like a movie.”

He sat back, arms crossed, obviously pleased with himself.

“We already have a plan,” Uhura put in, glaring at Jim a little.  “You and Spock and I came up with it last night.”

Jim turned to her.  “Well yeah, but Uhura, we’ve got to let Spock’s brother and his Romulan friends think they had a part in it,” he murmured, mouth barely moving behind his hand.

“He’s not a subtle creature, is he?” Sybok observed to Spock, who had made an executive decision not to translate that last part.

“Perhaps not,” Spock said.  “But he has other strengths.”

“It would seem so,” Sybok said, voice heavy with some sort of hidden meaning.

Spock gave him a quizzical look.  “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” Sybok said innocently.  Spock huffed a little at his dismissive tone but having spent a lifetime attempting to decipher the various secret meanings his brother tended to slip into conversation like a bad habit, Spock knew better than to push.  It could only end poorly.  He turned his focus back to the main happenings at the table, just in time to watch Mirok lose his patience.

“Get this ridiculous human pup out of my war room!” he shouted, standing up and banging his fist on the table for a good measure.  He zeroed in on Pike, who had been watching the proceedings with a placid look on his face.  “Can’t your leader speak for himself?” he said, then sneered.  “I do not see that his mouth is crippled.”

 With a churning in his stomach, Spock repeated his words in English.  The rest of the humans looked at him incredulously, but Pike’s eyes met Mirok, calm gaze for angry stare.

“All humans have a stake in this,” he said.  “I lead the Resistance, yes.  But not this.”

“I will not stand here and be insulted,” Mirok insisted.  “We have no obligation to aid your backwards little planet.”

Jim gave an uncaring shrug.  “Okay, fine,” he said.  “Don’t.  We’ll give all the _hain-enela_ to the Klingon pirates then.”   He yawned.  “Their asking price was better, anyway.”

The silence in the room was deafening.

Mirok gathered himself.  “Explain,” he said, face like a thundercloud.

“Oh, well, you didn’t think we were going to like, want to keep any of it?” Jim drawled, barely glancing up from examining his fingernails.  “That shit’s an invasive species.  Can’t have it fucking up our ecosystem.”

“He does know it only grows with a lot of outside help, right?” Gaila said in a concerned undertone to Uhura, who shushed her.  “He should.  I mean, he _did_ —”

“Anyway,” Jim continued.  “I’m sorry.  There must have been a miscommunication.  Spock said you guys were these big bad smugglers, the best in the Romulan Kingdom.”

“Empire,” said Spock through gritted teeth, even as he switched words mid-translation to cover for Jim’s mix-up.

“But I guess you don’t deal in _hain_ - _enela_.”  He honestly looked as if he could care less.  “That’s okay, I guess.  We get it.  Too hot for you guys.”

“If you would cease the idioms, Jim,” Spock said, looking a little harried, even as Mirok grew more and more visibly irate.

“Or maybe you do,” Jim said, tapping his fingers to his chin.  “Maybe,” and here he smiled, showing teeth.  “Maybe you just can’t do it.”

As Spock faithfully repeated the last of Jim’s insult into guttural Romulan, Mirok shot to his feet, hands gripping the table with such strength, Spock feared it would crack.

“Listen here you insolent little human,” he spat.  “I am Mirok.  I have command over six vessels, all outfitted with a military standard cloaking device.  All crewed by Romulans entirely loyal to me.  All armed with heavy artillery, and all,” he hissed, “Entirely capable of destroying any worthless Orion fleet.”

Uhura stood as well.  She and Jim crossed their arms simultaneously.

“Prove it,” they said.

Mirok sat back down.  “If we rid your planet of the Orion presence, you will give us the _hain-enela_?”

“Every damn plant,” said Jim.  “And trust me.  I know where to find them.”  He smiled grimly.

“And what about that one?” Mirok said, indicating Gaila.  “You still have not accounted for her.”

“Look,” said Gaila, lurching to her feet.  “I’m sure Sybok mentioned this to you already, but let’s just go over it again so that everything’s crystal clear.  I work freelance for one particular family group in the Syndicate.”  Her lips quirked upward.  “And the family group I’m contracted with happens to be feuding with the one in control of Earth.  So I’m not going to go betraying this little game.”

“Let me guess,” Mirok said, voice heavy on the sarcasm.  “The family group you’re contracted with used to have control of Earth.”

“Oh, very good,” Gaila said, fluttering long eyelashes at him.  “You must have been an exchange student at the VSA.”

“Don’t mock me, Orion,” Mirok said, pointing a finger at her.  “Won’t your employers want Earth for themselves?”

“Probably,” she said, flicking her hair back.  “But that’s not in my contract.”  She placed her hands flat on the table.  “Ayalis has got control of Earth right now.  He’s been running everything for the past fifteen years.  ‘S probably why the price of _hain-enela_ has risen so much.  Anyway, no one likes Ayalis.  Trust me on this.  You destroy his fleet, the Syndicate’s not going to help him.”  She sat back down.  “And I don’t really care to help them when they try to come back during the clean-up.”

“Orions,” said the female Romulan sitting at Mirok’s right hand side.  “Not a shred of honor.”  She spat.  “And a human lover.”

“I like humans,” Gaila said, lip curling.  “They’re rather endearing.”  She winked.  “And some are pretty flexible”

Sybok choked.

“What?” said Sulu.  “What did she say?”

The Romulan made a disgusted noise.

“Enough, Kerit,” said Mirok.  He leaned forward on his elbows.  “What are your terms?”

Jim raised an eyebrow.  “You will destroy or disable the Orion presence in this system.  You will remain here until the Vulcan fleet assures us of our further protection.”

Mirok laughed, “That could take years!”

“It will not,” said Spock firmly.

Mirok looked amused.  “What about if we stand guard for six Earth weeks at the most.  Would that suffice?”

“A year,” said Jim.

“Two months,” Mirok snapped.

“Done,” said Jim quickly.

Mirok looked a little unsettled.  “And in return,” he said, “You will give us the _hain-enela_.”

“It’s yours,” Jim agreed.

Mirok gave a brisk nod.  “Then Mirok’s fleet will enter into this accord.”

Spock breathed a sigh of relief.

Mirok folded his hands.  “We will sign the contracts.”

“The what?” Jim asked Spock.

“Romulans are very formal,” Spock said out of the corner of his mouth, even as Kerit unfolded a long piece of parchment.  She wrote out the terms of the contract, and even Spock had to admit that she had a very fine hand.

“So . . . I just have to sign it?”

“Everyone does,” said Spock, watching with a sinking stomach as Mirok brought out a knife.  “In a manner of speaking.”

“We have to sign in blood?” Jim yelped, even as all the other Romulans around the table brought out their own knives and made small slices on their fingers.

“Yes,” Spock admitted.

“Ew,” said Jim, shuddering.  “That’s barbaric.  It’s like making a deal with the devil.”

“It’s unsanitary is what it is,” McCoy put in, looking nauseated.

“Hey,” Jim noticed.  “Their blood is green too, like yours.”

Spock felt an uncomfortable prickling at the base of his neck and his spine.  “We have similar ancestry,” he said, not wishing to go into the complicated, mutual history of Vulcan and Romulus.  “Is it— Do you find it unappealing?” he made himself add.

In the act of slicing his own hand with a borrowed pocketknife from McCoy’s med kit, Jim looked up.  Whatever he must have seen on Spock’s face made his mouth soften into a smile.  “No,” he said.  “I don’t mind.”  He winced as he pulled the blade across his flesh and let his bloody fingerprint smear onto the paper.

“Now then,” Mirok said, looking a bit askance at the red blood.  “Tell me all about this plan you are going to devise.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Spock was pretty sure he had never before felt this uncomfortable in his entire life.

“Stop wiggling,” Gaila commanded, tongue between her teeth as she added more paint to his face.

“I do not see why this, this _farce_ , is necessary,” Spock said for the third time in the past ten minutes.

“Look,” said Gaila, “you’ve got to blend in.  You’re lucky they’re holed up in a spot where you can even wear stuff _to_ blend in, you catch my drift?”

“Your what?”

Gaila rolled her eyes.  “Just hold still,” she said.

Jim entered the room.  His costume, Spock was peeved to note, did not look nearly as outlandish as Spock’s own.  His black pants were tight, and he wore a dark green vest that would not have been out of place on Earth three hundred years ago.  A chain-link belt jangled about his waist as he moved.  He had painted his nails black, bleached his hair an unappealing off-white, and wore some sort of kohl drawn around his eyes to disguise their shape.  His gaze fell on Spock.  Traveled up his form.

“Looking good, Spock,” he said.

Spock’s lip curled.

Jim looked amused.

“Look this way, Vulcan,” Gaila commanded.  She dabbed something onto Spock’s nose.

“Gaila, it is not necessary to paint the entirety of my face,” Spock said, moving back, away from her interfering little hands, and the various implements of torture that they carried.  “I already appear more alien now than I ever did before.  And Jim, you do not need to be facetious.  I know very well how ridiculous I appear.  There is, in fact, a mirror in this room.  And I am facing it.”

“That’s the point, Spock!” Gaila said, exasperated.  “You’re supposed to look weird.  You’re infiltrating the main warehouse at Harajuku.”

“I’m not teasing,” Jim protested.

“Your brethren’s choice of location is very illogical,” Spock said stiffly, craning to catch a better glimpse of his bleached and ragged hair extensions in the mirror.

“No, it’s not,” Gaila defended.  “Think about it.  No one looks twice at people dressing weird in Harajuku, so who’s going to make a fuss about someone who looks like they’ve dyed their skin?  Plus, Japan’s government mostly runs on a technicality.  It’s all dens of criminals here.”  She grinned toothily, moving back and examining Spock.  “Perfect for a bunch of Orions.  Just like coming home.”  She turned towards the door.  “I’ll be right back,” she said.

As she left, Spock spun on his heel to face Jim.  “I would once again like to state my objections to being placed in this particular branch of the mission.  And I do not appreciate being dressed in the hides of deceased mammals.”  He plucked at his jacket accusingly.

“Spock, we’ve already gone over this,” Jim soothed, moving forward.  He placed two hands on Spock’s leather covered shoulders.  “Chekov and Sulu need to be the ones working the computers to get ahold of the rest of the Resistance so that they can do their thing.  We don’t have the contacts they’ve got.  And Uhura needs to be with Sybok because she speaks like, ten languages and everybody’s got to know what he’s saying, not just the people who speak English.”

Spock still looked unconvinced.   Jim made a last ditch effort.

“Plus, I need you with me,” he said.  “Of the people we’ve got on the ground, I’ve got the most hand to hand combat experience.”  He smiled, “And I know I can count on you to watch my back.  We already know we make a hell of a team.”

Spock pursed his lips, his form stiff and unyielding beneath Jim’s hands.  “Vulcans abhor violence,” he said.

“Nevertheless,” Jim said.  “I know I can count on you.”

Their eyes met.  Spock swallowed.

“Jim,” he said, shakily.  “I—”

And then Jim was cradling the back of Spock’s head in his hands, and they were kissing, kissing soft but still desperate and sweet as could be.

“Yeah?” Jim breathed, as he pulled back, still clasping the nape of Spock’s neck with gentle hands.  Their foreheads touched.

“Whoa,” said Gaila, walking back in.  “No, no, don’t mind me,” she said as they both looked at her.  “Keep going.”

Jim stepped back from Spock.  “I’ll uh, see you when you’re ready,” he said, running a hand through his already messy hair.  Spock could do nothing but nod.  They shared one last glance before Jim headed through the door.

“Huh, should’ve just stayed outside,” Gaila muttered, as Spock pretended not to hear her.  “Here, close your eyes so I can paint your lids.”

A good thirty minutes later, Spock joined Jim at the side entrance to their hotel.  Jim opened his mouth to say something, then closed it with a snap at the sight of the vaguely murderous glint in Spock’s eye.

“Gaila insisted on the white facepaint,” Spock said stiffly.  “And on the cowhide jacket and trousers.”

“Mmhmm,” Jim said, eyes still kind of wide.

“And these necklaces,” Spock said in distaste, fingering the four heavy metal chains he wore.  “They are not functional for combat.  And,” his voice rose, “This clothing allows me nowhere to place my sidearm!”

Jim gulped.  “Uh, we could find you a purse,” he offered.

“I beg your pardon,” Spock said flatly.

“Or you know, a small baggie or something,” Jim said, knowing he was babbling but unable to stop himself.

Spock’s eye twitched.  “Unnecessary!” he flared.  “I will simply fit it into my pocket.”  And as Jim watched, Spock then proceeded to attempt to do so.  The leather trousers were already tight, and Spock’s stun gun or whatever the hell it was, did nothing to help the matter.  In fact, all it did was shift as Spock moved, and look rather obscene.

“Uh,” said Jim, trying to be diplomatic but really not wanting to go out in public with Spock’s sidearm placed _just so_.  “Maybe we should—”

“We are already two point three minutes late,” Spock bit out.  He tugged at Jim’s arm.  “Let us proceed.”

Jim shook himself back into action, “Right,” he said.  “Okay.”  He gave a mental shrug.  Well, at least no one would recognize him in this getup anyway.   Hopefully.

The train ride over to Harajuku was even more embarrassing than Jim had expected it to be.  While he had anticipated attracting a fair amount of attention, decked out as they were, Jim hadn’t really counted on the majority of that focus being directed at Spock’s crotch.  Or, more specifically, at the suspiciously phallic shaped bulge in his pocket.

To make matters worse, with each lecherous or scandalized stare, he could feel Spock practically vibrate next to him.  Whether it was with nerves or with irritation or with fear he had no clue, but it was distracting as all get out.

“Would you quit that?” Jim tried to say out of the corner of his mouth.

“To what are you referring?” Spock hissed back, drawing closer to Jim as the rush hour commuters crammed as many bodies deep as they could into the already packed train.  The evening air might have been crisp, but inside was stifling.  Jim’s oh so fashionable vest stuck to his back, damp with sweat.  Everything smelled like unwashed, harried human.  

“You’re like, freaking out or something,” Jim said, trying to look like he wasn’t speaking English and not succeeding at all.  As the first American twang left his mouth, he noticed that the baffled stares of the people around him became even more pronounced.  He graced a disapproving looking older gentleman sitting nearby with an awkward smile.  The man’s eyes bulged a little.

“My apologies,” Spock said through gritted teeth.  “As a touch telepath, I find such close proximity to so many strangers to be a strain on my mental shields.”

Oh.  _Oh._ Huh, maybe he should have thought of that.  Jim was an asshole.  An inconsiderate asshole, to boot.  He really, really was.

“Oh,” he said, imagining Spock’s predicament and wincing a little.  “Sorry.”

“It cannot be helped,” Spock said, with all the intonation of a dry piece of cardboard.

“Oh for— budge up a bit, move over would you?”  Jim, using his relative youth and muscle to his advantage, ploughed through a few feckless commuters until he had his back to the inside wall of the train.  He pulled Spock after him, then manhandled Spock as best as he could so that the only things touching Spock was the cool metal wall of the train, the side of a seat, and Jim himself.

“Jim—”

“There, see?  Much better.”

Spock was quiet for a moment.  Then, “Yes,” he admitted, the word barely a breath of air to Jim’s straining ears.

“I’m a genius,” said Jim, not at all smugly.

He could _feel_ Spock twitch a little at that pronouncement.  But he said only, “English is such an imprecise language compared to Vulcan.  The definition of genius—”

“Oh, shut up, you,” Jim grumbled, leaning his elbow into Spock.

They had taken a local train and, after the first half hour had passed by, Jim was beginning to get used to the stares from other passengers.  In fact, he was even staring to revel in them, just a little bit.

“They do not think you are mysterious, they think you are ridiculous,” Spock murmured in his ear.

Jim flushed.  “That’s not what I was thinking!”

Spock gave him a look that, on anybody else, would have been classified as sly.  “Oh?  You should not think so loud.”

“Hey, no reading my mind,” Jim scolded.

Spock eyeballed him.  “I did not have to,” he said, crossing his arms.

This left Jim with no option but to give him a proper glare.

When the train finally stopped at Harajuku Station and Jim and Spock had pushed their way through the throngs of Friday evening shoppers and commuters, flower vendors, café patrons and just, _people_ , they exited up the stairs and to the side for a moment to catch their breath.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people,” Jim said as they leaned against the side of the station and tried to look inconspicuous.  “I grew up in Iowa, for fuck’s sake.”

“I grew up in Shi’kahr.”

Jim turned to look at him.  “I . . . have no idea what kind of place that is.”

Spock’s gaze seemed far away for a moment.  “It is the largest city on my home planet,” he said quietly.

“Oh.”  Jim gave a self-conscious little laugh.  “Well, I guess you must be used to these sort of crowds, then.”

“Humans tend to lack the mental shielding necessary for Vulcan society to function,” Spock pointed out.  He slumped a bit.  “I confess, I am as unnerved as you.”

Jim reached up to give Spock’s shoulder a little squeeze.  “Hey,” he said.  “No worries.”  He knocked his forehead gently against Spock’s.  “A few more hours and it’ll be all over.”

Spock closed his eyes.  He exhaled.  “One way or another,” he agreed, opening them.

“Way to be— oh.  Oh my.”  Jim halted whatever he was going to say in favor of staring over Spock’s left shoulder.

Spock furrowed his brow.  “Jim?  Jim?”

“Well that’s . . . something you don’t see every day,” Jim continued, oblivious to Spock’s concern.  Curiosity piqued, Spock gave in and turned to look.  His eyebrow rose at the sight of several curiously dressed humans.   Hair was dyed every color under the rainbow (and some, Spock privately admitted, that were not).  It was styled to all lengths, to match clothing of all eras, and the make-up seemed half cosmetic and half pure attitude.

The effect was most colorful.

“Fascinating,” he said.  He twisted to look back at Jim.  “This is a human custom?”

Very slowly, Jim shook his head.  “Uh,” he said.

“I see,” Spock said.  He drew himself up.  “Take my hand,” he commanded.

Jim collected himself.  “Sorry?”

“To reach the main warehouse, we must blend in,” said Spock, very seriously.  He struck a casual pose, leg cocked, hand resting on his hip.

Jim swallowed, and looked him up and down.  “Uh huh,” he said, voice faint.

“Attitude,” Spock said.

“Right.”  Jim’s voice was suddenly stronger.  He pushed himself up off the wall, rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck side to side.  “Attitude,” he said, pulling out that cocky grin.

Spock nodded.  “Give me the hologram transmitter.”

“Okay,” Jim said.  He reached into his bag, and pulled out a small square box.  “This the one?”

“Yes.”  Spock took it, and enclosed it in his fist.

“You know, that is so cool,” Jim said conversationally as they began to walk.  “Really.”

 “Indeed, you have mentioned.”

“All I’m saying is, there would be a market for that, you know?  Afterward.”

“We shall see,” Spock said, not really paying attention, walking a little faster than Jim.  Jim hurried to catch up, all the while aware of the stares of the people around them.  He hoped that they were due to their clothing, and not to their being so obviously out of place.

“There,” Spock said, all of a sudden, stopping.  His mouth barely moved.  “That building.”

The building was tall and grey, with barred windows, squashed between two high-end clothing stores.  It was only a few streets over from the train station, for which Jim supposed they should be grateful.  There was one bored looking human security guard out in front.  All in all, it looked rather unimpressive.

“That’s it?” Jim said, giving the building a once over.  “That’s kind of pathetic looking.”  He looked over at Spock, who was surreptitiously dropping the hologram transmitter onto a park bench.  “Spock!” he said, aghast.  “What are you doing?”

Spock pursed his lips.  “They need to be able to see it.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to miss a freaking hologram in the middle of the street,” Jim said.  “Aren’t you worried that someone’s going to take it?”  He jerked his head up towards the grey and shuttered building, as if to indicate just who might be involved in the taking.

“No,” Spock said.  He gestured towards the box.  “It appears to be trash.  This location will serve.”

“Well, it’s your fancy equipment,” said Jim, doubtfully.  His gaze flickered towards the building again.  “Do you think they see us?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Spock.

“Fantastic,” said Jim, sourly.  “These disguises had better be the fucking best.  I don’t want to get shot at out of a window.”

“Do you have the transport jammers?”

“Oh hell yeah,” Jim said.  “You think I’d forget those babies?”  He began to reach into his bag, then reconsidered.  “We’re going to be sitting ducks if I start pulling out those things right here in the open,” he said.  He squinted at the sky.  The light was nearly gone, but street lamps lit up the areas as brightly as any day.  “We’ve got to find somewhere private.”

Spock frowned.  “Where would you suggest?”

Jim’s gaze flittered around the street until it came to rest on the brightly lit storefront directly next to the grey building.

“There,” he said.  “In there, come on.”  He began to move towards the store, yanking Spock along behind him.  With a flourish, he pushed open the door, a bell jingling.  A young woman gave a slight bow as he and Spock entered.

“Uh,” said Jim.  She said something else to him, obviously trying not to stare at Spock.

“Jim,” growled Spock.

Jim reached out blindly and grabbed something off a rack.  “This!” he said brightly, hoping to hell that she spoke English.  “I would like to try this on!”  He felt, more than saw, Spock jerk his arm free in order to rub at his temples.

The woman stared at him for a moment, eyes wide.  He brandished the clothing at her.  “This!” he said again, now taking the time for a closer look.  He nearly groaned when he realized that what he was holding was, in fact, a bright orange mini-skirt.  He girded his loins anyway.  “Where can I try this on?”

She swallowed, her eyes flickering back and forth between him, the skirt, and Spock, who was standing very stoically, like a long-suffering statue.  Then she pointed over to a curtained-off area at the far end of the store.

“Over there,” she said, weakly.

Jim conjured up a smile.  “Fabulous,” he said firmly.  “Thanks.”  He and Spock hurried over to the dressing curtain.

“I think only one is permitted—”

Jim tugged him inside by the back of his shirt.

“Here’s the jammers,” Jim said.  He deposited three of them in Spock’s hands.  “You sure this’ll work?”

“The transport jammers will work,” Spock said.  He hesitated.  “But Jim,” he said.  “Once we activate them and enter the building, neither of us will be able to beam in or out.  Not even if something goes wrong.”

“I know,” Jim said.

Spock struggled for a moment, then reached out and touched Jim’s face.  “Even if the odds of our success are but twenty three point seven three percent,” he started.

Jim caught his hand, caressed it.  “Never tell me the odds.”

“Even so,” Spock said.  “I would not—” he swallowed.  “To wish is illogical,” he said.  “But even if it were not so, I—”

Jim drew closer, lips parting a little.  “Yeah?”

“Even if It were not so,” Spock said again.  He looked down, then up, his cheeks turning dark even through the paint on his face.  “I would not wish to be anywhere else but here.”

Jim swallowed.  “Spock,” he said, voice catching in his throat.  “I—”  Spock looked at him, dark eyes arresting him where he stood.  “Me too,” he finally, lamely.  He breathed in, then out.  He met Spock’s gaze.  “Me too,” he said again, voice solid this time.

The barest, tiniest hint of a smile touched Spock’s lips.  Jim grinned back, feeling hot and trembling cold all at once.  Then Spock seemed to shake himself.

“We have five point zero four minutes left,” he said.

“Right,” Jim said.  “Time to fucking rock and roll.”

“A strange human idiom,” Spock commented as Jim yanked the curtain open and he and Spock fled past the confused sales lady and out the door again.

“Sorry, skirt didn’t fit!” Jim called back.  “I’ll have to look online instead!”

She may have said something in reply, but her voice was lost in the jangling of the closing door.

“Okay, jamming signal,” Jim said.  He looked at Spock.  “I just put them on the ground, right?”

“At least five meters apart,” Spock confirmed.

“Great,” Jim said.  “Meet you on the other side?”

They both looked up at the forbidding grey of the building.

Spock inclined his head.  “Indeed.”

Jim pursed his lips.  “How much time do we have left?”

“Approximately three minutes.”

“We’ll have to be quick,” Jim said.  He touched Spock’s shoulder.  For a moment, Spock thought that he would draw him into another human kiss, but instead he just smiled, thumb massaging the skin underneath the leather jacket.  Despite himself, and the situation, Spock leaned into the touch

“Yes,” Spock said.

Jim nodded briskly.  He squeezed Spock’s shoulder once more.  “Time,” he said softly.  “Let’s go.”


	17. Let Your Spirit Fly V

**Let Your Spirit Fly V**  
  
Depositing the transport jammers in a rough circle around the building was the easy part.  When he and Spock met, breathing hard, at the other side of where they had started, Jim began to consider their next, ostensibly more difficult, step.  
  
“I hope Gaila knew what the hell she was talking about,” Jim muttered as he peered around the side of the building to eye the security guard.  
  
“She _was_ an enemy informant,” Spock pointed out.  “I am certain her sources are reliable.”  
  
Jim stared at him.  “You’ve never been a spy, have you?” he said after a moment.  
  
“No,” Spock said, starting to hold himself a little stiffer.  “But—”  
  
“Shit, he’s still there,” Jim whispered.  He clamped a hand over Spock’s mouth, feeling the hot air tickle his palm.  
  
“ _Mmghmf,_ ” said Spock.  
  
“If Gaila was right and the whole security system was automated with signals from one of the Orion ships, we’ve only got a few minutes before they notice the jammers and the human backup starts to work,” Jim said.  He huffed.  “Serves them right for thinking that our anti-burglar tech or whatever wasn’t good enough.  Right?”  
  
Spock clawed Jim’s hand away from his face.  “In simplified terms, yes,” he allowed.  He narrowed his eyes.  “Also, my voice is hardly louder in volume than yours.  The hand was unnecessary.  Additionally, it is a fact that Orion technology is more advanced than human.”  
  
“Sorry,” Jim said.  “Habit.”  He flushed a little.  The habit had developed over an absurdly long recon mission in the South Pacific, when some of the members of his team had been prone to too much talking, and then to getting themselves shot as a result.  He supposed though, that Spock probably didn’t appreciate it.  “Sorry,” he said again.  
  
“You are forgiven,” Spock said, mollified by Jim’s groveling.  “Besides, the hologram transmitter has not yet begun.  The security guard has nothing to distract him.”  
  
“And how long—”  
  
“Forty-five seconds,” Spock said.  His eyes fixed on the little box.  
  
It was, by far, the longest forty-five seconds of Jim’s life.  As the moments ticked by, Jim’s grip on Spock’s arm grew tighter, so that by the end his nails were practically digging into Spock’s flesh.  
  
And then the box began to glow blue.  
  
A little girl, pigtails sticking out of the sides of her head, was the first to notice.  She stopped and stared, before her mother pulled her along, uninterested.  
  
An old man was next.  Leaning on his cane, his back nearly bent in two, he peered at it owlishly, as if unsure whether or not what he was seeing was fact, or a product of his failing vision.  
  
Then a boy, dressed in a similar manner to Spock, caught a glimpse.  And then a girl, bedecked in clothing from four hundred years ago.  A man in a suit.  Someone’s dog.  Then crowds started to take notice, patrons gazed out of shop windows as the light around the box grew brighter and brighter.  It coalesced into a single beam and then—  
  
The bridge of a Romulan ship.  And there was Sybok, resplendent in Sarek’s robes, face stern.  He held out his hand, palm up, fingers split in the _ta’al_.  
  
“Greetings, Earthlings!” Sybok boomed.  
  
Although he had been expecting it, Jim still jumped.  
  
Beneath the hologram, a stream of Japanese subtitles began to appear.  Meanwhile, Sybok stood and paced closer.  “I am Sybok, son of Sarek of the House of Surak.  I come to you from the planet Vulcan, to free your people from bondage, and from tyranny!”  
  
The street was suddenly very, very quiet.  
  
“Spock, your brother makes a fantastic thespian but now would really be a great time to get into the building,” Jim murmured into his ear.  
  
Spock started, then tore his attention away from the gigantic holo-screen Sybok, and back towards the issue at hand.  “The guard?”  
  
“Oh, he’s definitely watching,” said Jim.  
  
“Convenient,” said Spock.  
  
“A great battle will take place in your skies tonight,” Sybok intoned, as Spock and Jim slid away from the side of the building and sidled casually up to the man guarding the front of it.  “On the honor of Vulcan, we will rid your planet of the Orion scourge.  They have poisoned your politics.  They have cut your planet’s fledgling wings into spaceflight.  They have funded and encouraged your endless wars—”  
  
“So . . . hoax or alien invasion?” Jim said conversationally to the security guard, motioning towards Sybok.  Startled, the man whirled to face Jim.   At seeing him so close, his mouth made an O of surprise, but before he could get a word out, Spock nerve-pinched him from behind.  He crumpled without a struggle.  As predicted, the crowds on the street were now too engrossed with Sybok’s studied pacing and gesticulating, to notice.  
  
“My money’s on ‘alien invasion,’” said Jim to the figure on the ground.  “But I’ve kind of got an in on this one.”  
  
At this point, the people gathered on the street began to turn to each other, faces confused.  Voice began to mutter at first, then grew louder.  One or two brave souls attempted to touch the holo-transmitter and received a mild shock to the hand for their trouble.  The holo-transmitter stayed put.  The drama unfolding on Sybok’s ship continued uninterrupted.  
  
On the holo-screen, a klaxon blared.  A Romulan crewmember, wearing what might have been part of the Empire’s fleet uniform thirty years ago, burst onto the deck.  “Lord Sybok,” he gasped, giving a salute that Spock happened to recognize as the sort of hand motion a homosexual Klingon might make when inquiring after a like-minded partner.  He supposed he ought to be thankful that they had not chosen the Betazed equivalent.  
  
“Have the Orions responded to our hails?” Sybok queried imperiously.  “Are they willing to answer to Vulcan justice for the crimes they have committed against the denizens of Sol III?”  
  
“The Orion ships are firing upon us!” the Romulan crewmember cried, behaving in a manner that was basically the opposite of anything Vulcan.  
  
“ _Lord_ Sybok?” Jim snickered.  He manhandled the unconscious security guard so that he looked as though he were merely sitting down for a rest between the wall and a conveniently placed trashcan.  “I didn’t know your family was royalty.”  
  
Spock muttered something.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“He has taken two separate and very famous plays and simply replaced the required dialogue,” Spock complained, even as Jim cautiously palmed the sensor on the door to the grey building.  “It is a disgrace.”  
  
The door opened.  
  
“Huh, would you look at that.  Looks like Gaila’s sources were right after all,” Jim said.  He cast a glance back at the increasingly irate crowd.  “Come on, someone’s going to try and shoot that thing up sooner or later.  It doesn't have to be our Orion friends.”  
  
“A disgrace,” Spock grumbled.  
  
“Come on, Spock.”  Jim snapped his fingers in front of Spock’s face.  “I can’t believe I’m the one telling you to focus here.”  
  
The very indignity brought Spock up short.  “I am perfectly focused,” he hissed.  He too, looked at the crowd.  “Even if the holo-transmitter is destroyed, they cannot destroy every single television broadcast on your planet.  Not within a reasonable timeframe.  The message will get through.”  
  
“Then come on,” Jim growled back at him.  “We opened the door, now let’s get inside before it slams on our lucky-ass faces.”  
  
Spock gave him a dark look, but kept his commentary to himself as he and Jim slipped into the building.  The door clanged shut behind them.  
  
They found themselves in a lobby.  The marble floors were cold and still, and reflected fake oak paneling along the walls.  There was no indication outside the elevator of where any of the levels might lead.  The light was a sullen flicker, more of a suggestion than anything tangible.  
  
Jim shrugged the backpack off and pulled out some weaponry he had borrowed from Mirok’s cargo hold of questionably obtained items.  He clipped one gun to his belt and held another in his hand, the safety off.  “Movies that start out like this never end well,” he said, looking around warily.  “Where are they?  I know there’s security cameras here.  There’ve got to be.”  
  
“Hopefully, those monitoring them are still distracted by Sybok and his . . . “ Spock floundered for a moment, “. . . fleet.”  He grimaced, managing to sound both a little bit proud, and a lot disdainful.  He eyed the empty, yet still foreboding, room.  “Additionally, the back-up security system has not yet had time to fully reboot.  But we cannot linger here.”  
  
“How can they all be distracted?  I mean, seriously.  I came up with this plan and even I still expected there to be somebody here trying to kill us.”  
  
“If we are to continue to trust Gaila’s information, we must go down.”  Spock removed his own, Vulcan model phaser from his pocket and clicked the safety off.  He started towards the elevators.  
  
“Oh hell no,” said Jim from behind him.  “No way.  You ever see a horror movie?  An elevator is the number one place for something bad to happen.  We’re taking the stairs.”  
  
“Jim, that is absurd—”  
  
But Jim was shaking his head and Spock could sense that there was no way he was going to be winning this.  
  
“I don’t care if we’re going deep enough to hit mantle,” Jim stated.  “We are taking the goddamn stairs.”  
  
Illogical.  Humans were illogical.  
  
He followed Jim to a side door, and they started down the stairs.  
  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
“I’m still not convinced that he and Spock are related.”  McCoy squinted at Sybok, as if trying to find some semblance of Spock in his form.  The search became more difficult when Sybok turned around to see him staring, and gifted him with an amused smile.

Uhura sighed, then scrubbed at her eyes and focused again on the data pad.  Sybok sauntered over.

“Is there something troubling you?”

She looked up at him, the side of her mouth quirking.  “This is, uh . . . very dramatic,” she said.  “That makes the translation a little tricky, is all.”

Sybok motioned carelessly with his hand.  “Do what you can,” he said, voice airy.  “We only need for the basic message to get across, after all.”  His eyes grew distant.  “Freedom comes first in the mind.  We must, therefore, stimulate the minds of your people.”

“Huh,” McCoy scoffed.  “Good luck with that.”

Sybok rounded on him, fancy robes swishing with every step.  Mirok, passing by with a wrench in one hand, gave them all a mildly repulsed look before continuing on through the doorway.

“You do not seem to have much faith in your fellow humans,” Sybok said.

McCoy crossed his arms.  “Show me someone who’s got faith in the human race and I’ll show you a goddamn liar.”

“Ah,” said Sybok.  “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Okay, now I see where he and Spock are related,” McCoy said to Uhura.  “They’re both insufferable.”

Sybok laughed out loud.  “My brother?  Insufferable?”  He took McCoy by a companionable shoulder.  McCoy stiffened, though he did not shake him off.  “To an outside observer, my brother was the ideal Vulcan child.”  His look turned thoughtful.  “Logical, intelligent, curious; perfect in every way.  Except for not being fully Vulcan, of course—”  He paused to take in McCoy and Urhura’s boggled stares.  “Oh dear, that wasn’t a secret, was it?”

“I beg your pardon,” McCoy managed to spit out.  “What is he—part Romulan or something?  Is interspecies breeding allowed?”

“Of course it is,” Sybok said indignantly.  “We’re not barbarians.”  He examined his fingernails, then graced them with a look so without guile that it had to be on purpose.  “And Spock isn’t half Romulan, don’t be absurd.  He’s part human.”

There was a long bout of silence.  Uhura’s jaw dropped.  “You’re joking.”

“Why would I?” said Sybok.

“Oh my god,” said McCoy, faintly.  “But that’s not—how is that even possible?  Humans don’t go into space.”

Sybok heaved a sigh.  “It is a very long and complicated story that I’m sure Spock would be delighted to share with you all when this is over.”

“I doubt it,” McCoy said.  “Spock’s never delighted about anything.  I can tell you that much.”

Uhura gave him a kick in the shin.  “Don’t be an asshole,” she said.

“Well if he is, he never shows it!” McCoy said, rubbing the tender spot, irate with self-righteousness.

“It’s his culture,” Uhura snapped at him.  “Honestly McCoy, no need to be so insensitive about it.  He’s just different.”

“Well then, how come Sybok here is just full to bursting with emotions?”

Sybok looked like he was starting to reconsider his earlier declaration of faith in the human race.  “I am considered, as I believe the human idiom goes, somewhat of a black goat among my family.”

“I never would have guessed,” McCoy said dryly.  “Tell me another.”

“Another?” Sybok queried.

Inexplicably, McCoy laughed.  “He’ll do,” he told Uhura.

“You’re an ass, McCoy,” she replied, back to scowling at her translations.  She glanced up at Sybok.  “Couldn’t you get software to do this?”

Sybok arched an eyebrow.  “I have always been of the opinion that a true translation requires a living touch.  Do you disagree?”

She gnawed her lower lip.  “I guess not.  It’s just, if you’re going to be broadcasting this to the world, I don’t want people laughing at my subtitles.”

Sybok caught her gaze.  His dark eyes suddenly seemed unfathomable, and endless.  Hypnotic.  She blinked, and the effect was broken.  Sybok stepped around her to grasp the data pad and examine its contents.

“They will not be laughing,” he assured her.

She swallowed.  “I guess.”

“We have one more hour before we disengage the cloaking device and hail the Orion ships,” Sybok said.  “Will your translations be ready by that time?”

“Yeah,” said Uhura.  “They should be.”

McCoy pursed his lips, leaning his hip against the side of the wall.  “I can’t believe you guys can invent a cloaking device but you have to undo it to shoot at anybody.   Doesn’t that kind of defeat the point?”

“It is a Romulan invention,” said Sybok haughtily.

“Whatever,” said McCoy.  “Why didn’t you invent a translator or something?  Now, that would’ve been useful.”

“We have,” said Sybok.  “But even I cannot afford to equip Mirok’s fleet with Universal Translators.  Besides, as you might expect, your human languages are not even entered into the database.  It would be a moot point.”

McCoy frowned.  “Well, the cloaking thing is still kind of a big oversight, anyway.”

“I’ll let Mirok know you think so.”

McCoy wrinkled his nose.  “That pointy-eared devil looks at us like we’re the gum stuck to his shoe.”

“Oh no,” Sybok reassured them.  “It’s not just you.  Romulans just hate anyone who isn’t a Romulan.  It is one of their many cultural defects.”

“And they’re your allies,” Uhura said slowly.

“Well,” said Sybok.  “It was either us, or the Klingons.”

“We keep hearing about these Klingons,” McCoy groused.  “Are they actually that bad?”

Sybok looked thoughtful.  He tapped his fingers against his face.  “Let me put it this way,” he said.   “If Klingons had conquered your planet, you would be worrying less about drug kingpins, and more about nuclear winter.”

“They sound like a friendly bunch,” McCoy said, mouth puckered in distaste.

“Of course,” Sybok continued, “If Klingons had conquered your planet, then at least you would have noticed it at the time.  Subtlety is not their strong suit.”

At that moment, Kerit, Mirok’s second in command, appeared in the doorway.  She strode over to Sybok, pausing for only the briefest of moments to sweep a hostile glare over Uhura and McCoy.  She then proceeded to ignore them completely, speaking only in Romulan to Sybok, as if the humans were less than invisible.

Sybok answered her in Romulan, his face going serious.  He nodded, then turned to Uhura and McCoy.  “I must go to the bridge.  Remain here.  Work on your translations.  We will need to input them into the program as soon as possible.”

“Kerit,” Uhura said.  “What are Spock and Kirk’s locations?”

“ _Did that worm just speak to me?”_ Kerit said to Sybok, one haughty eyebrow lifting.  _“Their tongue is unpleasant to the ear.”_

_“The location of my brother,”_ Sybok said.

Kerit huffed.   Sybok’s gaze hardened.

_“Now,”_ he said.

_“According to our sensors and the Orion female, they have reached the main warehouse_ , _”_ she said, though clearly reluctantly.

Sybok nodded.

Kerit spun on her heel and headed out of the room, walking as quickly as dignity would allow her.

“What a bitch,” said McCoy.  Uhura crossed her arms, nodding in agreement.

Sybok looked confused.  “That is an . . . insult, yes?”

“Where did you learn your English?” Uhura asked, voice curious.

“Why?” Sybok asked in surprise.  “Do I speak the language poorly?”

“No, no,” Uhura said.  She cocked her head.  “It’s just, you have a very literal interpretation to it.  And you miss some of the idioms and things.”

Sybok let out a chuckle.  “My dear, I am a Vulcan, as much as my father might suspect otherwise.  Literal, logical, interpretation is the foundation of our modern society.”

“Still,” said Uhura.  “Where’d you learn it?”

Sybok looked at her for a moment, as if weighing his answer.  “From Spock’s mother,” he said finally.

“Wait, she’s still alive?” exclaimed McCoy.  “Is she—is she living on your planet?”

Sybok looked, if possible, a little embarrassed.  “Would you examine the time!” he said brightly.  “I’m needed on the bridge.”

“It’s ‘look at the time,’” said Urhura, helpfully.

“Yes, yes,” said Sybok as he dodged both McCoy’s irritated stare and the table next to him.  “Well, I shall see you soon,” he said as he left.  “You’re not supposed to be on the bridge, but I might be able to bribe Mirok with a corpse to torture or something.  We shall see.”   He waved, and they stared in mild shock as he vanished down the hall.

After he had left, McCoy moved closer to Uhura.  He peered at the data pad she held, trying to decipher the myriad of languages she had translated Sybok’s speech into.

“How many languages do you speak?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “Maybe like, twelve?  A lot, anyway.”  She stuck her tongue between her teeth in concentration.  “Why?”

“That’s pretty amazing,” McCoy said.  “Why’d you learn so many?”

She shrugged.  “When you understand a language, you understand a culture,” she pointed out.  “If our planet’s ever going to get its shit together, we’ve got to be able to understand each other on a deeper level.”  She indicated the words on the data pad.  “So, languages.”

“Wow,” said McCoy, after a moment.  “That’s a lot, I don’t know, better than the reason I tried to learn French.”

“Why’d you try and learn French?”

McCoy’s cheeks turned a bit ruddy.  “The girl down the block spoke it,” he confessed.  “She was from Montreal.”

Uhura patted his hand, eyes dancing.  “You must have been very inspired.”

“If only inspiration was all that it took,” he said mournfully, shaking his head.  “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Listening,” Uhura said, making some last minute corrections.  She glanced up.  “And a little inspiration.”

“Oh, now you’re making fun of me,” McCoy said, his accent coming out thick.

“Me?  Never.”

“Sure.”  He sat down next to her at the table.  They were quiet for a few moments.  Uhura placed a flourish or two on the contents of the data pad, then closed it.  McCoy placed his chin in his hands and leaned his elbows on the table.

“We’re on a spaceship,” he said.

“I know,” Uhura said.  She shook her head, a small grin upturning the corners of her mouth.  “Bizarre, isn’t it?”

“Hell, it’s so weird I think sometimes I might have dreamt these past months,” said McCoy.   “Still.”  He exhaled.  “It’s not a very good spaceship.”

“I don’t know,” said Uhura, cautiously.  “It’s hard to tell.”

“It’s a smuggler’s ship,” McCoy said, tone flat.  “It can’t be that good, even with all the money and cloaking devices in the galaxy.”

Uhura shrugged, looking a bit uncomfortable.  “It and, I guess the rest of Mirok’s ships too, they’re all we’ve got.”

“Yeah,” said McCoy.  He drew in a breath, facing her.  “So what if—what if Jim and Spock’s bluff doesn’t work?  What if those Orions don’t give two shits about them blowing up their precious drug sky high?  What if it doesn’t work?”

Uhura bit her lip.  “I mean, things working out as they usually do, I suppose they’ll shoot at us, we’ll shoot at them, and the whole world will watch on Chekov’s hacked T.V channels.”

“In this tin can,” McCoy said.  “We’ll die.”  He kicked at the wall as if to demonstrate.

Their eyes met.  “That’s always been a possibility, McCoy,” she said.

“I know,” McCoy said.  “I know.  I just—” he jumped up, rubbing his face with his palms.  “I can’t, you know?”

“What?”

“I can’t die.”  McCoy ran his knuckles along the side of the table.  “I can’t die,” he repeated softly.  “I have to find out what happened to my little girl.”  He looked at her.  “You get that, right?”

Uhura stood, then slowly, so as not to startle him, drew him into a hug.  “Yeah,” she said, “I know.”

He squeezed her back, and then broke loose to look her in the face.  “So we sure as fucking hell can’t die,” he said, very seriously.  “Even on this godforsaken, diseased, tin can.”

“Then we won’t,” Uhura said, voice as solid as steel.  She picked up the data pad and offered her arm to McCoy.  “Want to come with me to the bridge?”

McCoy took her elbow in a gentlemanly fashion.  “Your wish is my command, darling,” he said.  “Let’s walk on in there and give ol’ Mirok a coronary.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In total, there were three hundred and twenty eight stairs.  Or it might have been three hundred and twenty nine—Jim had gotten a little mixed up somewhere in the   two hundreds.

“Did you count the stairs?”

It was dark, so Jim felt rather than saw, his companion’s confusion.  “Stairs?” Spock said.  “There was only one stair.”  He paused.  “One very long stair,” he added.

Jim rolled his eyes heavenward, and was a little disconcerted to see that, well, he couldn’t see much.  The height of the ceiling, the breadth of the room they had stepped down into, what might have been skittering around in that corner over there, it was all a complete mystery.  Still, by the sound of their muffled footsteps, the room must have been quite large, almost cavernous.

“Not _stair_ ,” he whispered.  “Stairs.  Steps.  Did you count the steps?”

“Oh.”

Jim waited.

“No, no I did not count the steps.”

Jim sighed.  Spock moved closer to him in concern, although he still walked a little ahead.

“Have I violated a human custom?”

“Have you—what?  Well, no.  Not really.”

“Then why—”

“Never mind, not important.  So, how do we go about finding their stash?”

Instead of an answer, there was the sound of a mild collision, then a grunt.  Jim froze.

“Spock?”

A momentary pause and then Spock spoke, his voice sounding a little strained.  “I have located a—a door.”

Jim immediately stuck his arms out in front of him.  He walked two more steps and his left hand came into contact with something cold, hard, and metallic.  His right hand came into contact with something warm.

“Found you,” said Jim.  He felt the metal beneath his fingertips.  “You crash into this?”

“Its location was unexpected,” said Spock.

Jim choked out a laugh.  “Poor baby,” he said.  “How’s your nose?”

“If we could focus on the matter at hand,” Spock said primly.

“As long as you’re okay,” said Jim.   “So do we have to—what was that?”

“What?”

The ground beneath their feet started to tremble.  “The room is shaking and you have to ask me what?”  Jim growled, as a low hum began to emanate around them.   He grasped at Spock’s shoulder; half for balance, half for moral support.  “What the hell is _that_ now?”

“I—this area is very seismically active,” Spock said, looking around as if the darkness and the room could tell him one thousand things.  “A small tremor is not unusual, so I have heard.”

“An earthquake?”  Jim forced calm into his tone.  “Well, it’s stopped now.  Do you think we need to worry about, I don’t know, aftershocks or anything?  Is that a thing?”

Spock was quiet for a moment.  “No,” he said finally.  “I do not believe so.  The tremble was mild.  We must focus on our task.”

“I think focus is your new favorite word.  Aside from ‘illogical,’ I mean.”

Spock gave him a sideways glance.  “A favorite word is illogical.”

“No,” said Jim, “this door is illogical.  How the hell do you open it?”

Spock began to feel along the sides and edges.  “There must be a control panel of sorts,” he muttered to himself.  “If we can locate it, we should be able to rewire it.”  He grimaced.  “Although it may be difficult to do so without light.”

“Yeah,” said Jim.  “Probably should’ve checked to see if the flashlight was working before we came down here.”

“Perhaps,” Spock agreed.

Jim exhaled, breath whistling between his teeth.  “Open Sesame!” he commanded.  The door remained shut.  Jim let his head thunk against the metal.  “Well, it was worth a try.”

There was a beat of silence during which Jim fantasized that he could hear the gears of Spock’s brain turning, and also the effort it was taking him not to ask the obvious question.  He decided to put Spock out of his misery.

“And before you explode from curiosity, that’s a human literary reference.”

“I see,” said Spock, voice very dignified.

“There’s a cave,” Jim continued.  “And some thieves.  And there’s a password which is—”

“Jim.  Focus.”

“Knew that was your favorite—OW!”

“Jim?”

“Ow, yeah I’m okay.  Something just stung me.”  Jim shook his hand, a weird shock running through his fingertips.  “I think I found the doorknob.  Or, you know.”

“You are not injured?”

“I mean, it kind of hurts but my hand’s not going to fall off if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It was not,” Spock said.  “Although I am also pleased to hear that.”

“Anyway.”  Jim motioned, then realized that Spock could barely see him.  He grabbed Spock’s arm instead, and guided it towards the spot on the door.  “I think the locking mechanism is here.  There must be a code, or a DNA scanner or something for it to shock me like that.”  An idea occurred to him and his eyes widened in alarm.  “I hope I didn’t accidentally set off any alerts.”

Spock frowned, his hand hovering just above where Jim had touched and been shocked.  “I did not hear anything.”

“Doesn’t mean much,” Jim said.  He rubbed at his hand.  “The feeling’s mostly gone now.  It might just be a warning.”

“How very Orion,” Spock said, and Jim could hear the distaste in his voice.

“Jeeze Spock, you’re kind of starting to sound like a space racist.  Are all Orions that bad?”

“They conquered _your_ planet,” Spock pointed out.  “The prime directive of their culture involves criminal enterprises.  Slavery.   Preying on others.  They stand for everything Vulcans do not.”

Jim sighed.  “I’m sure that’s not all of it,” he said.  “Gaila’s been helpful.”

Spock pursed his lips.  “She is, perhaps, an anomaly,” he allowed.

“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to hear that you think so,” Jim said, and Spock could hear the laughter he was suppressing.  “Anyway, the point I’m making is—oh, fuck me!”

“I beg your pardon?” Spock said incredulously.

“What?  No!  I mean, yeah, but no.  Sorry.  Look!”

“Jim, I cannot see anything in this darkness.”

“Wait.”  There was the sound of skin scraping on metal, and then an actual, physical flame, emanated from a small metal square Jim held between his thumb and forefinger.  “See?  I had a lighter in my pocket!”

“A . . . lighter?”

“Yeah, Chapel asked me to hang on to it, but then things got kind of hectic and I forgot to give it back.  But do you think you could take a look at the door now?”

“I—yes,” Spock said, a bit surprised that the light given off by the flame was in fact, sufficient to see.  “If you could lower it a little.”

“Like this?”  Jim knelt and held the light at Spock’s waist height.   “Can you see?”

“Yes.”  Spock bent to examine the door.  Now that there was light, he could see that Jim had been shocked by the small force field glittering green around the edges of the panel.  He thought for a moment.  To open the door in the traditional fashion, he would have to be in possession of a device that radiated another force field the exact opposite in phase as the one around the control panel.  Obviously he was not in possession of such a device.  So.  How to open it?  He expressed his concern to Jim.

“I say we shoot it.”

“Jim, energy weapons will have no effect,” Spock stressed again.  “We need a force field key that will cause destructive interference.  What you are proposing might in fact be _constructive_.”

Jim crossed his arms, careful to keep the lighter flame away from the fabric.  “I don’t mean with a laser weapon,” he said scornfully.  He indicated the gun at his side.  “What about a projectile?”

“It is a force field,” Spock said.  “It will merely deflect it, like it did your hand.”

Jim paused in the act of exchanging one gun for another.  “It shocked my hand.  It didn’t deflect it.”

“Did it not?”

“No,” Jim said.  “Maybe it’s not a true force field.  Maybe it’s just to discourage people from reaching in who aren’t supposed to.”

“That would serve the same purpose.”

“No,” Jim said.  “Look, humans wouldn’t have the first clue what this stuff is, or why, right?”

“I suppose not.”

“Then okay, so maybe they were only worried about high tech aliens – such as yourself – getting up in their business.  So they got the cheap security system.  One that caters to the way high tech people do business and scares off the rest of us.  You with me?”

“I—yes, I believe so.”

“Okay, well you guys do all your business with lasers and phasers and force fields.”  He reached for the gun again and tugged Spock back, away from the wall.  “Let me show you how we do business on _Earth_.”

“Jim—”

Jim shot the panel.  At the impact, light frizzled around it, leaving dark scorch marks.  The green force field disappeared.  One of the panel buttons popped out.

“See?” Jim said, sounding thoroughly satisfied.  “Guns with bullets and lighters with flames.  I vote we knock them out of the sky with trebuchets next.  It’s the last thing they’ll expect.”

Spock forced his heart to slow and his vocal chords to unfreeze.  “Jim, that could have ricocheted and killed us both,” he said, voice strangled.  “That was highly reckless.”

Jim looked a little shamefaced.  “Oh,” he said.  “Sorry.  I didn’t think of that.”

Spock squeezed his eyes shut.  “Clearly,” he bit out.

“Sorry.”  Jim gnawed on his lower lip and then indicated the still smoking control panel with his gun.  “Can you hotwire the thing now?”

“Put that weapon away,” Spock snapped.  Meekly, Jim did as he said.  Spock looked at the control panel.  “As long as there are wires enough remaining to manipulate,” he said somewhat scathingly, and got to work.

Jim scratched at the back of his neck and continued to look shamefaced.  He moved the lighter closer and shifted from foot to foot until Spock glared at him pointedly.

“There,” Spock said, after a minute or two of fumbling.  “It should be—” He scrambled back to his feet as, with the screech of a door oiled by lazy and infrequent hands, the metal door swung outward.

Naturally, the room ahead of them was dark.

“Goddamn they’d better have a light switch,” Jim muttered as they started forward.  They both froze as the ground beneath them trembled.  “Another earthquake?” Jim asked when it had stopped.

Spock shook his head.  “I do not know.”

“Well, let’s hurry up and get this party started,” said Jim.  “I don’t want to be down here if there is a bigger quake on the way.”

“Agreed,” Spock said.  He and Jim stepped into the room.  Spock opened his mouth to suggest that they start by feeling for a switch alongside the walls, but as they crossed the threshold of the door, lights began to flick on the ceiling.

“Motion sensor?” Jim murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

“Likely,” Spock whispered back as the lights grew brighter.  He blinked and looked at Jim, who was putting his lighter back into his pocket, and wiping at his streaming eyes.  Then he looked ahead, and could not stifle the small gasp that left his lips.

“Oh shit,” Jim said, stepping up beside him, jaw dropping.  “Looks like we found it.”

And indeed, filling up a cavernous room as far as the eye could see, were wooden storage boxes, stacked on top of one another in neat rows.  Jim lifted the lid of one and whistled at the tightly packed packages of brown and yellow crystals.  He put it down again, and moved toward Spock.

“Why would they use wood?”

Spock’s forehead furrowed.  “I am uncertain,” he admitted.  “However, I would postulate that as an organic material itself, the wood would perhaps, modify or camouflage the _hain-enela,_ if a ship’s cargo were to be scanned.

“Huh,” said Jim.  Then he blanched.  “Bastards have better not been using our trees!  We need those!”

“I must contact Sybok,” said Spock, reaching for his communicator.   “Do you have the charges?”

“You think I’d leave without these babies?” Jim asked, holding up two.   He walked to the far end of a row and began to pile them with the glee of a small child playing with blocks.

“You did leave without a functional flashlight,” said Spock.

“Always harping on the details,” Jim groused as he set to rigging the explosives.   “Hmm, I hope we’re still under the building proper.  If this thing actually blows and we’re not, someone’s going to get a big surprise the next time they go down to the basement.”

“I do not harp,” Spock defended.  He typed something into his borrowed, Earth-style communicator.  There was a brief sound of static, and then Gaila’s face filled the screen.

“Spock!” she said.  “You made it?”

“Hell yeah,” said Jim.  He stopped what he was doing and jogged back over to Spock.  “Took us a bit to get through the door though.”  He grinned smugly.  “And like I said, our _inferior_ tech isn’t affected by the jammers.  So there.”

Gaila stuck out her tongue at him, then frowned.  “The blueprints show an elevator that goes straight into the warehouse.”

“How fascinating,” said Spock dryly, casting a look a Jim.

“Whatever,” said Jim.   “What’s going on up there?”

“We’ve hailed the main ship,” Gaila said.  “They don’t seem to want to answer.”

“Well, fuck,” said Jim.  “Give them a picture of this—”  he snatched the communicator from Spock’s hand and waved it around the room.  “And of this, too—” he brought the communicator down low to make sure the explosives were very clear to see.

“Or how about,” said a voice from behind, “a picture of this.”

There was the sound of an energy weapon discharging, and then Spock dropped to the ground as if his legs had been cut out from under him.  His head hit the linoleum floor with a sick sounding crunch.

“Spock!” Jim shouted.  He whirled around, dropping the communicator, to stand over Spock as Orion after Orion emerged from behind the wooden storage containers.  He could hear Gaila shouting on the communicator, but could not respond.  His eyes fixed on Spock.  Was he breathing?  Oh god, please, please let him be breathing.

At the sound of booted footsteps, Jim looked up and forced himself not to blanch at the sight that greeted him.  Orions, they had to be Orions.  At least twenty of them.  They grinned at him, faces ranging from orange to green, fingering their weapons as they stepped closer and closer.  Jim forced himself to stand his ground, to focus on this new threat, to ignore the possibility that Spock might already be dead.  He reached for the gun at his waist, gripped it in sweaty palms.

Suddenly, maybe ten feet away, the Orions stopped.  Jim swallowed.  He formed his other hand into a fist around the detonator to hide his trembling and forced himself to watch, forced himself to look calm and cocky, like he had no fear, as just one of them stepped forward.

(Jim didn’t know if it was the one who had shot Spock, but he didn’t care.  He wanted to kill him anyway.  He wanted to kill them all.)

“Poor little human,” said the Orion.  Jim steeled himself to meet those bulging green eyes, to look unflinching at orange skin and clashing silver clothing.  “Your deal with the Romulans was mildly clever, but you didn’t really think six little Romulan ships were going to chase us away, did you?”

“Who are you?” Jim demanded, somewhat surprised at the steadiness of his own voice.  “How did you get in here?”

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” asked the Orion.  “You’re the ones breaking and entering.”

“Your name,” growled Jim, fear starting to give way to being.  Just.  Really.  Pissed off.  He focused on that feeling, felt his body calm and his mind grown sharper.  His hands steadied.

“My name is Ayalis,” said the Orion.  He gave an ironic little bow and shook his head, pointing at the far wall.  “And we took the elevator, obviously.  Trust a human to do things the hard way.”

“Fuck you,” Jim said.

“Please,” Ayalis said, eyes going flat.  “That comes later.”  He nodded at Jim’s hands.  “Drop the weapons.”

In response, Jim raised the detonator.  “If you come any closer,” he said, voice shaking now in anger.  “I’ll blow this place sky high.  And you, and me, and all the _hain-enela_ with it.”

Ayalis crossed his arms.  “You’re bluffing,” he said.  “You haven’t finished rigging it.”

“Try me,” said Jim tightly.  He gripped the collar of Spock’s jacket as well as he could, and began to back up against one of the crates, dragging Spock’s body along as well.

Ayalis sighed, then he fired his weapon at Jim.  The energy beam hit him in the leg and he dropped his gun, gasping in pain.   He fell to one knee, eyes watering.

“I do not have time for this,” Ayalis said.  He motioned to his fellow aliens.  “Take them.”

Jim struggled to his feet, reaching for his fallen weapon.  “I’ll shoot!”

“You can barely stand,” Ayalis observed.  He eyed Spock.  “And your Vulcan friend has fallen.  Give up.”

“No,” said Jim fiercely, back now to the crates

The ground beneath them rumbled.  Some of the Orions looked at each other, unnerved.  Ayalis glared at them.  “Hold your positions,” he snarled.  “It’s just the subway.”

Jim blinked at that.  Then immediately focused again.

Ayalis stepped closer.  “Give up,” he said again.  “I have thirty ships from the Syndicate at my command.  Your little Romulan enterprise is likely already destroyed.  Give up, and I might let you live.”

“Don’t talk bullshit,” said Jim.  “I know you’re not even a part of the Syndicate.”

Ayalis curled his lip.  “Let us just say,” he said silkily, “that the rest of the Syndicate and I have come to a momentary accord.”  He indicated Spock, then shook his head in mock sorrow.  “Apparently, news that a _Vulcan_ ship was snooping was enough to bring them around.  Really, that little spy should have waited for orders from her _superiors_ ,” he spat out the word, “before throwing her lot in with humans.”

Jim slumped to his knees again.  Darkness was beginning to encroach on the edges of his vision.  He felt for Spock’s hand and curled his fingers around Spock’s when he found it.  He startled as Spock squeezed his weakly in return.

“You were shot in the chest,” Jim said to him, gasping from the pain.  Spots danced in front of his eyes.  His leg felt as though it were on fire.  He put his head next to Spock’s.

“My heart,” Spock managed, “is in a different location than yours.”

Jim squeezed his eyes as tears of pain and anger and relief threatened to break through.  “If this were any other situation, I’d think that was a corny metaphor for breaking up with me,” he said, and gripped Spock’s hand tighter.  “But at the moment, I’m just glad you’re a literal minded bastard.”

“How sweet,” Ayalis said.  He held up his hand.  “Hold on, gentlemen, let’s give them a minute.”  He leered, “Everyone knows that we Orions love, love.”

“Jim,” Spock breathed, eyes still closed.  “Jim.  The charges?”

Jim shook his head.  “Over there,” he said.  “They’re not rigged.”

Spock took a breath.  He whispered something.  Jim bent down lower to hear, his hand splaying across Spock’s chest.  He tried not to look at the ugly wound there.

“What?”

“Flammable.”

“What?”

“The crystals, Jim.  They are,” Spock coughed.  “When they react with water, the resulting solution . . . is highly flammable.”

For a moment, Jim’s heart felt as though it had stopped in his chest.  Adrenaline flooded his system.  And very slowly, Spock blinked open his eyes.   They met Jim’s.  He nodded towards the crates.  Specifically, towards the one he and Jim had already opened.

As Jim shifted, the hard, square shape of the lighter in his pocket pushed against his leg.

“All right,” said Ayalis, crossing his arms.  “I think we’ve given them enough time to say goodbye.   They’ll probably be on the same cargo ship to Rigel VII anyway.”  He nodded to the Orions circling them.

Jim inched his hand down into his back pocket.  His fingers brushed against the lighter and he drew it out.

“Take them,” said Ayalis.

With strength born of desperation and mad adrenaline coursing through his body, Jim surged to his feet, praying his leg would not collapse.  His hands scrabbled on the open crate behind him, digging for the packages filled with the _hain-enela_.  He pulled one bag out with a shout of triumph, and then flicked his lighter and held it up, grinning eerily.

All of the Orions immediately froze.  Their gazes moved from Jim, to the flame he held, to the bag of _hain-enela_ crystals.  Jim opened the bag with trembling fingers, thought for a moment, then spat into it.  He shook the bag, then spat into it again.

“What are you doing?” Ayalis barked.

“Go to hell,” Jim said.  He touched the lighter oh-so-gently to the wet material on the top.  And as it burst into flame, he lobbed it as far and as hard as he could, straight at the pile of charges.  The flame caught.

They exploded.

Jim threw his body over Spock’s.  The force of the blast was enough to cause boxes of _hain-enela_ to come tumbling down, the wood crates crackling into flame as they met with the fire from the explosion.  Ayalis was shouting something, his face shiny bright with burns, but Jim couldn’t hear through the ringing in his ears.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he shouted at Spock.

Spock may have said something in reply, but Jim couldn’t hear it.   As he looked around, he saw that the fire had begun to spread quickly.  Smoke entered his lungs and he coughed.  The Orions milled around in a panic; they had been closer than Jim and Spock had been to the explosion, and so were even more disoriented.

The elevator door, maybe six meters away, caught his gaze.

“Come on!” he shouted, tugging at Spock.  But Spock couldn’t move.  Jim thought he saw words forming on Spock’s lips, but he ignored them, as he ignored the heat growing around him.  “You bastard, I’m not fucking leaving you here!” he hollered, over the sound of wood crackling and crashing as it caught fire. 

Spock caught his arm.  _Go_ his mouth formed.  Jim shook his head.  “I won’t!” he said again.  And then he bent down, heaved as much of Spock over his shoulder as he could, and began to stagger towards the elevator.  The fire in his leg felt hotter than the true fire around him, but Jim would not stop.  He could not.

Spock was _heavy_.  He didn’t look it, but man.  Jim could hear the Orions behind him beginning to get a little more organized.  Something fell.  There was a pained shriek.  Shots discharged.  Flame roared around him.  Jim drew in a breath of smoke and coughed again, deep in his chest.  His limbs began to feel strange, and it occurred to him that along with the wooden crates, the _hain-enela_ was burning too, releasing its potent smoke.  One foot in front of the other, he thought to himself as Spock’s legs dragged alongside the ground.  Slow and steady wins the race.

He reached the elevator door and jabbed at the button blindly, unable to see for the smoke and the tears streaming from his eyes.

“Come on, come on!” he said.

The doors opened with a chime.  Jim stumbled inside, dropping Spock as he pushed at the button over and over to close the door.  The doors closed.  Jim sputtered, and gasped and coughed as he took a deep breath of the comparatively fresh air.

“I’m going to guess,” he said to Spock, voice hoarse, “that there’s a party waiting for us upstairs.”  He peered at the buttons, and saw that there was one more floor to go.  _The subway_ , Ayalis had said.  He looked again at Spock.  He was out cold.  At least, Jim thought with a shiver of trepidation, he hoped he was.  Jim pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to clear them of the stinging smoke.

“I guess we’re going down,” he said, and pressed the button.

One level was not very far, but to Jim it seemed like ages passed before the elevator dinged their arrival and the double doors opened onto a narrow platform in a dimly lit tunnel.  A single elderly man, dressed in a grey uniform, was mopping the floor.   His white hair stuck out in tufts behind his ears, and ringed his otherwise bald head.  He looked up as Jim staggered out of the elevator, dragging Spock as well as he could.  The old man’s jaw dropped, and he backed up in fright, holding his mop in front of him in defense.

“No,” Jim croaked.  “Please.”  He held up his hand as he stumbled and fell to the ground.   His ears still rang from the explosion.  “Please,” he said again, or at least he thought he did.  “Please, help.”

The last thing Jim saw was the man’s slow lowering of his mop.  He fainted.


	18. Let Your Spirit Fly VI

**Let Your Spirit Fly VI**  
  
Spock floated into consciousness with the thought that he was most certainly dead.  After all, as far as he could remember, he had been shot—not fatally perhaps, but badly enough to be in need of immediate medical attention.  Of which there had been none.  Instead, there had been a fire.  An explosion.  And possibly an elderly human?  He was fuzzy on that last bit.  
  
But if he was not dead, he was almost certainly hallucinating.   Even more bizarrely, he was hallucinating his father’s presence through their familial bond.  Given that even if Spock were too weak to shield, his father definitely would never be, and also given that Sarek was on Vulcan anyway, it just seemed very unlikely that his senses were firing on all thrusters.  
  
Spock opened his eyes to a very sterile sickbay.  The exit sign above the far door was in Vulcan characters.  
  
“I seem to have died,” he said, his voice coming out in what could kindly be referred to as a hoarse croak.  He blinked.  “Death is very peculiar.”  His throat hurt.  He coughed.  
  
“You are not dead,” said Sarek, sitting beside him.  He lay his palm against Spock’s forehead and Spock felt their mental connection like a balm to his mind.  “You are in the sickbay of the VSS _T’Mor_.  You have been in healing for three days.”  
  
“Oh,” said Spock, and slept.  
  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
Jim’s awakening was less gentle.  It was hot.  He was sweating.  And there was something pushing on his chest.

“Well, well, look who’s awake,” came a very, very familiar voice.

Jim attempted to put his pillow over his face, and possibly to smoother himself with it, but found that his arm wouldn’t move.  He cracked open eyes encrusted with gunk.

“My chest,” he groaned.

“What about it?” prompted McCoy, perched cheerfully at his bedside, all decked out in gleaming scrubs.

“Hurts . . .”

“Huh, I’ll get you some more painkillers.”

“. . . leg?”

McCoy stopped his bustling and looked over.  “Still numb?”

“Numb?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”  He came over, and began to prod delicately at Jim’s knee.  “Can you feel this?”

“A little.”

“Huh, that’s good.”  Quick as a snake, McCoy jabbed him with a needle.  Jim flinched on instinct, but then realized he couldn’t even feel it.  “Whatever you got shot with did something to the nerves, and kept the blood from clotting.  The way that Vulcan lady explained it, said it was like some kind of venom.”  He shook his head.  “Don’t ask me how you get venom into a laser weapon.  That shit sounds like fantasy land to me.”

“Venom . . .” Jim trailed off.  Then his brain caught up with what else McCoy had said.  “Wait, Vulcan lady?” he exclaimed, trying to sit up.  His throat ached, and he immediately regretted shouting.  McCoy restrained him with one lazy hand.

“Oh no you don’t,” he scolded.

Damn, his chest hurt.  “Why does my chest hurt?” he asked, easing back down, as clearly he was going nowhere.  He hadn’t been shot in the chest, had he?  No, that had been Spock . . .

McCoy rolled his eyes.  “I don’t suppose you’ll remember, but your first day in bed, you made like a lunatic, tried a jailbreak, fell out, and cracked two ribs.  The smoke didn’t help, either.”  He adjusted Jim’s blankets.  “Idiot,” he added.

Jim shut his eyes, feeling as though he was missing a large chunk of whatever had recently happened.  A shot of fear went through him.

“Spock?” he said quietly, dreading the answer.

McCoy sat next to him.  “He’s alive,” he said, taking Jim’s hand and squeezing it.  “He was in a pretty bad way though.  You both were.  Lungs all fucked up from smoke inhalation, shot through with some weird alien gun . . . I have to say, I was worried.”  He exhaled.  “I was worried.”

“Where,” Jim swallowed, the room spinning in his relief.  “Where is he?”

McCoy pointed at the ceiling.

“Up . . . stairs?” Jim said hesitantly.

McCoy huffed.  “No,” he said.  “I’m pointing at the sky.”

“That’s the ceiling.”

“Well, I mean the sky,” McCoy said.

Jim stared at him.

“He’s in space,” said McCoy, exasperated.  “Jesus Christ.  He’s on a Vulcan ship in orbit.”

Somehow, Jim thought there were several things wrong with that sentence.

“Bones,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“What the hell is going on?”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Father,” said Spock, the next time he was lucid.  “Why are you here?”

Sarek paused his perusal of his data pad to fix his son with an intent look.  “What do you recall?”

Spock hesitated for a moment.  His gaze drifted around the sickbay room.  It was clean, much cleaner than anywhere he had been on Earth.  As far as he could see, he was the only patient.  His bed was sufficient for comfort, perfect for a long term healing trance.  He had been bathed, and his skin was raw as if scrubbed, though the scent of smoke still seemed to cling to his nostrils.  He thought back.

“We infiltrated the Orion warehouse,” he said slowly.  “We intended to locate their stores of the _hain-enela_.  Jim and I—our plan, that is—” he shook his head, forced himself to think harder, to articulate.  “We would locate the _hain-enela_ and threaten to destroy it, unless they agreed to trade.  Earth for, for the safe transport of their drug.  Sybok and his Romulan ships were a distraction, to make the humans aware of what was happening, and to form a deterrent should the Syndicate—the Orions, I mean . . . should they attempt to return before we could get word to . . .”

He looked at his hands.  He nails were clean and filed.  He felt for a wound in his chest.

“The plan failed,” he said woodenly.  “The Orions on Earth had made an alliance with the majority of the Syndicate.  They ambushed us.  Jim . . .” his throat seemed tight.  What was this ache he felt?

Sarek sighed.  Spock looked up sharply.

“The human, James Tiberius Kirk, is alive,” he said.  “He is being cared for by a—a mutual acquaintance of yours, I believe.  A Doctor Leonard McCoy.”  He shrugged.  “We of course offered the services of our own healers, but Dr. McCoy insisted that as he had spent his entire professional career caring for humans, he was—and I believe this is a direct quote—‘a damn fool sight better prepared to fix him than any of you hacks.’”

Spock choked.  Sarek’s mouth twisted.

“Human vernacular is so interesting,” Sarek said, and stood adjust his clothing and to brush an invisible piece of lint off the sleeve of his robe.

“Indeed,” Spock managed, looking at his father with new eyes.  Then a thought occurred to him.  “Sybok?”

Sarek sat back down, his face looking drawn.  “The ship captained by the Romulan, ah, freelance trader, Mirok, was badly damaged.  Your brother is—he survived, but he remains in a healing trance.”  Sarek looked away, then back at Spock.  “They do not know if he will wake.”

Spock swallowed.  “He is badly injured?”

Sarek nodded.

“May I see him?”

Sarek looked at him with gentle eyes.  He smoothed the coverlet across Spock’s chest.  “Later, perhaps,” he said.  “For now you must rest.  When I go to him I will—I will convey your regards.”

“He is not in this sickbay?”

“No,” Sarek said.  “He is in another, better equipped to deal with his injuries.”

“He would not be injured if he had not come for me,” Spock said quietly.

Sarek reached out and brushed his fingers against Spock’s meldpoints.  “Your brother’s loyalty is commendable,” he said.  “He fought for you of his own free will.  Do not dishonor his sacrifice with shame.”

Spock nodded.  He twisted the coverlet between his fingers.  “How did the Vulcan fleet come to be in orbit around Earth?”

Sarek looked, if possible, a little embarrassed.  “The Orions made a mistake in targeting the _Nirak_ ,” he said.  “Upon hearing of the ship’s disappearance, and knowing of course that you had been on board, your mother became rather vocal in regards to determining what had happened.”

Spock felt something warm well up inside him.  He bit back a small smile.  “Mother convinced you to petition the High Command?”

Sarek folded his hands.  “Actually,” he admitted to the ceiling, “I went at her bidding and was refused.  She therefore went and petitioned them herself, after threatening to first unman, and then divorce me.”  He winced a little at the memory.

Both of Spock’s eyebrows rose.  He sat up a little straighter.  “Indeed?”

“Yes,” said Sarek.  “At that point, Sybok had informed her of the Orion presence on Sol III.  She advised the High Command that if they would not do anything about the Orions’ operating illegally on a pre-warp planet under their very noses, then she would follow Sybok’s route and ask the Romulan fleet for their assistance instead.  Given recent history between the Empire and the Syndicate, she felt as though they would be more than willing to oblige her in this small matter.”

“If the Praetor had been forced to intervene in a criminal enterprise so close to Vulcan space, the High Command would have lost much face,” Spock said solemnly.  He met his father’s gaze.  “So the High Command sent ships.”

“The decision should not have taken so long.  Our timing was barely fortunate.”

“But fortunate nonetheless,” Spock said.  He exhaled.  “What will become of the planet?  All of their governments, their authorities—they were all built upon foundations laid by the Syndicate.”

Sarek turned to him.  “Sol III has been placed under Vulcan protection,” he said.  “We will assist them in rebuilding their society.”  He grimaced.  “A more peaceful society,” he amended.

“I have learned that humans are a very contrary species,” Spock said, thinking of one human in particular.  “They will not like it.”

“When they have discovered warp speed, they are free to destroy their planet, and each other, however they see fit,” Sarek said primly.  “Until then, Vulcan will stay.”

“They will not like it,” Spock said again.  His eyes flickered to the viewport just over Sarek’s shoulder.  The blue planet was well named; its oceans glowed in the darkness of space.  “It will be a monumental task.”

“The High Command has assured me that I am equal to it,” Sarek said.  Spock blinked at him in surprise.  Sarek’s voice turned dry.  “It is possible however, that such backhanded flattery, and an appointment as Ambassador to Sol III, is merely meant as punishment for your mother’s actions.”

Spock looked at him shrewdly.  “You are not displeased with her?”

Sarek looked out the viewport, then turned back to Spock, his hands clasped loosely in his lap  “If I had wished to contain her,” he said, “I would not have married her.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Jim, this is Mr. Hasegawa.  He’s the reason you and Spock are still alive.”

Jim clicked off the news anchor who had been attempting to interview what he thought might have been Spock’s dad.  He turned to see McCoy escort an elderly man into the room.  Jim’s eyes widened in recognition.

“I remember you!” he exclaimed.

The man bowed.  “I should hope so,” he said in impeccable English, “although I was not sure.  You had lost much blood by the time we met.”  He tucked his hands into his pockets.  “I did not think you would survive.”

“Eh,” said Jim, waving his hand dismissively.  “Please, come in.  Thank you saving my life.”  He swallowed.  “And for saving Spock’s,” he added.

Mr. Hasegawa nodded.  “From the events of the past week, it seems almost as if it is I who should be thanking you.”  He glanced out the window.  “I have lived a long time, Mr. Kirk, but I did not think that I would ever live to see this world at peace.”

“Oh,” said Jim, rubbing the back of his neck.  He turned a little red.  “Well, it was more Spock, see.  He’s the one who really got things rolling.  I was just along for the ride.”

“Even so,” said Mr. Hasegawa.  “It is an honor to have helped the men who freed our planet.”

“Whoa,” said Jim, holding out both hands.  “Wow.  I um, I don’t really know what to say to that.  But it was a lot more than just me, really.  I mean, there was Spock and, and his brother, and the whole of the Resistance, really.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Hasegawa.  “But you and I are here.  So as one man to another, I thank you.”  He bowed.

“Well,” said Jim.  “I—I thank you too.  For my life.  And for Spock’s.”  He bowed awkwardly from his position on the bed.  “You didn’t—I mean, you could’ve just left us to die, and you didn’t, so.  Thanks.”

“I could never have left you to die,” said Hasegawa.

“Oh,” said Jim, dumbly.

And apparently that was the end of the matter.

Mr. Hasegawa stayed for another hour or so, chatting with Jim, and asking what he thought of this new, Vulcan occupation.

“Well, first off, I don’t think it’s an occupation,” said Jim.

Hasegawa raised his head.  His bald top gleamed in the fluorescent light, the wisps of his white hair around the edges fluttering a bit in the breeze from the air vent.  “No?” he said.

“No,” said Jim firmly.  “I mean, they’ve known we were out here for hundreds of years and they didn’t do anything until they’d realized that someone else had already invaded, right?”

“Yes,” said Hasegawa.  He shifted in the hard chair and leaned forward, wrinkled face intent.  “But they have disbanded all the governments on Earth and publically declared us under their ‘protection.’”  He jerked his head towards the television Jim had been watching.  “Already there is talk that we are to become a Vulcan colony.  The leaders of the Resistance are facing fire from their own members, saying we have traded one conqueror for another.”

Jim frowned.  Being stuck in the hospital, he had been cut off from the events taking place outside.  “That doesn’t sound like how Spock described Vulcans,” he said.

Hasegawa shrugged.  “They are very logical, yes?  Perhaps they have decided that we are not logical enough.  Perhaps they have decided that we are volatile.”  He lowered his voice.  “That we are dangerous.”

Jim laughed, but it sounded off.  “Dangerous?  To them?  Our technology is so behind theirs, we’re like babies.  We’re no danger to them.”

“Maybe so,” Hasegawa said.  “And maybe it is, like we are babies, that they think they must keep an eye on us.”

Jim couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

After the old man left, with promises to come back and visit Jim again, if only because his life had not been this exciting in years, Jim turned on the television again.  He hadn’t really been paying attention before, but now he watched the expressions on commentators’ faces as they spoke of the Vulcans.  Was that fear he saw there?  Or was it a justified nervousness?  Anger, or distrust?

He clicked the T.V off and stared at the blank screen in the suddenly quiet room.  He had thought that once the Orions were gone and the Vulcans had saved the day, Earth could go back to being the peaceful utopia it had always clearly been meant to be.  He snorted.  What a load of shit.

What would happen now?  The wars had been terrible, and the dictators and oligarchs harsh, but with them they had managed to maintain a kind of planetary limbo.  People died, people vanished, but life went on.

Oh god, there were going to be some fucked up economic consequences, weren’t there?  Jim didn’t even try to pretend to understand the world market, but even he could get that with the sudden collapse of almost every major government in the world, there was going to be some serious financial problems in the long run.

And for fuck’s sake—if the Vulcans had removed all of the Orions, who was running the goddamn planet?

He needed to talk to Spock.  No.  Not Spock.  Rather, he’d love to talk to Spock but Spock was who knows where, and possibly stuck in the Vulcan equivalent of a hospital anyway.  Who knew when he would be well enough to . . . to—he pushed away the insidious thought that Spock was gone, that he might never be coming back.

No.  He needed to talk to Spock’s dad.  He needed to convince him that they were going about their helping Earth mission all wrong.  He needed to be all, ugh, logical and shit.  He needed to be convincing.  And he also needed to figure out how to contact the Vulcans because they sure as hell hadn’t left him a phone number.

Jim shut his eyes in resignation.  The planet was doomed.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How progress the relations with the humans?”

Sarek looked pointedly at the data pad in Spock’s hands.  “You know very well how they do,” he said.  “You have been watching their news.”

Spock tilted the data pad so that the screen faced Sarek instead.  Across it flashed the newest sensational headline _(Is Conquering Earth Logical?  What Sarek Won’t Say)_.  Sarek curled his lip at it.  Spock put the data pad away.

“I am aware that that the media is often influenced by the affected parties.  Nevertheless, what is there is concerning.  There are stories of riots and mass panics.  Rumors that Vulcan will declare martial law, until the planet can be managed properly.”

“That is preposterous,” said Sarek.  “No one is declaring martial law.”

“No?”

“It would be impossible; we do not have the resources here.”

Spock lifted an eyebrow.  “So it was considered?”

Sarek’s lips thinned.  “The people of this planet are very illogical,” he said, “and suspicious.”  He stood, his hands behind his back as he stared out the viewport at the image of Earth hanging in the black.  “They will not accept that we act in good faith, that we act in their best interest.”

Spock frowned minutely.  He shifted in his bed and glanced up at the ceiling in thought.  “Perhaps we are not approaching the problem from the correct angle,” he said.

Sarek turned to look at him.  “Elucidate.”

“You have been trying the logical approach,” said Spock, “Yet we—perhaps more than any other Vulcan—know that humans are inherently illogical.  It may be necessary to further tailor our method.”

Sarek approached him.  “You are likely the foremost Vulcan expert on human behavior at this point, Spock.  What do you suggest?”

Spock took a quick breath.  “What I suggest is not logical, nor is it efficient, and will likely slow planetary recovery down significantly.  However, if we wish for the humans as allies in the long term, we must, perhaps, determine a method that would allow the humans to,” he looked down, then back up again, “manage their own future.  Their ego is already bruised by the Syndicate’s actions.  We must not exacerbate that.”

“If we leave now, the planet will collapse into absolute chaos,” Sarek objected.  “Their heads of state have been removed, but the bureaucracy survives on the promise that Vulcan will bring stability.  If we depart, that too will fail.”

“We cannot dictate their future,” said Spock, and he was surprised to hear his voice rising in volume.  “Humans will take our logical approach and view it though an emotional lens.  They will distrust us, they will fear us, and soon they will begin to hate us.”  Spock swallowed, not even sure anymore if he was referring to humans in the future, or humans in the past.

“Spock,” Sarek said.  Spock could feel his concern, though his face remained simply inquiring.  “You have not yet told me how you came to meet the humans of the Resistance.”

Spock lowered his gaze.  “It is unimportant,” he said to his hands.  His forehead furrowed.  “What methods of government have humans historically preferred?”

Sarek noted the subject change, but allowed it for the time being.  He took a step closer to Spock.  “I am uncertain,” he admitted.  His eyes flickered back to the planet.  “This task would be simpler if they had an equivalent to our own High Command,” he murmured to himself.

Spock nodded.  “But they do not,” he said.  “Their planet has never yet been united under one banner.”

Sarek passed his hand over his face as though to ward off a headache.  “This will be a monumental undertaking.  We will not only need one Ambassador, we will need lawyers and scientists.  We will need historians and economists and bureaucrats.”

“But they must be human.”

“They would act under the guidance of Vulcan advisors.”

Spock pondered this.  He tried to picture how a human might react to such a mandate.  How _Jim_ might react.  “No,” he said slowly.  “Vulcan mentors, perhaps, present if needed, but not advisors.”

Sarek looked doubtful.  He folded his hands into his sleeves.  “I do not believe that to be a wise course of action.  Humanity is not stable.  We must avoid planetwide chaos at all costs.”

Spock shook his head.  He indicated the headlines on the data pad as he said, “There is already planetwide chaos.  We must attempt to manage it in a way that humans do not find objectionable.”

“I am beginning to speculate that humans will find any course we take to be objectionable,” said Sarek darkly.  He looked down as his communicator pinged.  He took it out without much interest, and then looked at the caller.  “It is T’Ani,” he said.  “I must take this call.”

Spock nodded.  Sarek opened the communicator.

“Sarek here,” he said.

Spock watched with a great deal of interest as, for the briefest of seconds, his father’s expression actually changed to that of surprise.  Spock blinked, and Sarek’s face was back to normal.

“Indeed?” he was saying.  “Through their human satellite signals?”  He listened for a moment, then nodded.  “How resourceful,” he said.

Spock tried very hard to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping.  As Sarek sat down again in the chair however, he gave it up as a lost cause.  He leaned forward, eyes intent on the conversation.

“I see,” said Sarek.  His gaze travelled over to Spock, who tilted his head in inquiry.  “Very well.  Please escort our guest to the sickbay.”  He hung up.

“Father?” said Spock, after the silence began to grow oppressive.

Sarek straightened his robes.  “It would appear,” he said, “That you have a visitor.”

Spock was confused for a moment.  “Someone from another ship?” he clarified.

“No.  A human one,” Sarek said, looking down the long line of his nose at him.  “Quite a resourceful being, if their method of communication is any indicator.”

Spock’s heart sped up.  Jim was resourceful, was he not?  Perhaps . . . but no.  Jim had been badly wounded.  He was in no shape to be visiting Spock, was he?

“When will this visitor arrive?” he queried.  He bent his head so that Sarek would not see the expression of anticipation on his face.  His emotional control was still tenuous after his ordeal.

“Presently,” said Sarek.

“Present—” started Spock, then stopped as the door to the sickbay slid open.  He turned toward the entrance, hardly daring to believe it.  Then he paused, taking in the identity of his visitor.  “Nyota?” he said slowly.

She beamed.  “So you are alive!” she exclaimed, moving towards him.  She then registered Sarek and stopped.  “Ambassador Sarek?” she questioned, hesitantly.

“I am,” confirmed Sarek.

Uhura bowed, hands flat to her sides against her faded jeans.  “It is an honor to meet you,” she said.  “I am Nyota Uhura, second in command to Christopher Pike of the Resistance.”

Sarek’s eyebrow went up.  He showed her the _ta’al_.  “Well met,” he said.  “Your method of contacting us was quite,” he hesitated, “interesting.”

Uhura smiled.  “Actually, that was Jim’s idea,” she said.  “I just provided the Romulan language part of it.”

“Romulan language?” broke in Spock.  He shook his head.  “Forgive me, when did you have the opportunity to learn Romulan?”

Uhura shrugged, settling herself in a chair.  “When I was aboard the ship,” she said, smoothing down the front of her shirt.  “I just picked up a few words, but we thought you might be more likely to pay attention if our satellites shouted something non-human at you.  I mean, you guys didn’t exactly leave a phone number.”  She looked around with interest.  “This ship is a lot nicer than the other one,” she commented.  “And it really is great to see you’re recovering.”

“An interesting solution,” Spock said, reluctantly impressed.  He tilted his head up towards Sarek.  “And indeed, I am recovering.”  He winced a little as he shifted.  “Albeit more slowly than I would prefer.”

Sarek glanced between Spock and Uhura, and gathered his robes about himself.  “You must have much to discuss,” he said.  “I will return when you have finished.”  He took a step.

“No, wait!” said Uhura quickly.  Sarek stilled.  Spock looked at her.  “Wait,” she repeated.  She shifted in her chair, crossing her legs.  “What I’m here for involves you, too.”

Sarek and Spock shared a silent communication, before Sarek planted himself back in place, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes.  He examined the human woman before him.

“Very well,” he said.  “Proceed.”

“Uh,” said Uhura.  “Well, Jim would have come too, but he’s still not allowed out of bed.”

Although this particular piece of information likely had little to do with whatever Uhura was actually there to speak with them regarding, Spock nevertheless felt a spark of warmth somewhere in his side.  He nodded anyway.  “I understand,” he said.  “Please convey my regards to him.”

Uhura smiled.  Sarek adjusted his sleeves impatiently.

“He says hi to you to,” she said, and winked.  Sarek appeared alarmed at the motion, perhaps wondering if Nytoa was developing a facial tic, but Spock understood the intent.  He inclined his head the slightest bit and Uhura continued.  “But anyway,” she said.  “The thing is, I came alone because aside from me and Jim, most humans were too frightened.”

Sarek and Spock were silent for a moment as they digested that tidbit of knowledge.

“Frightened . . .” Sarek trailed off.  “Frightened of what, may I inquire?”

Uhura looked surprised.  “Well, you guys,” she said.

Sarek’s forehead wrinkled.  “That does not make sense,” he stated.  “We have greatly assisted in freeing humans from Orion influence.  We are here to help.  There is no logical reason for their fear.”

Uhura frowned.  “There are plenty of logical reasons,” she objected.  “You’re an unknown.  Your technology is much more powerful than ours.  We don’t know anything about you.”

“We have proven ourselves to be peaceful,” Sarek said.

“Fear isn’t logical,” said Uhura, voice low.  She glanced at Spock, who caught her gaze and tilted his head to the side, ever so slightly.  “But anyway, the reason we went to all this trouble is because, honestly?  You’re doing it all wrong.”

Sarek stiffened.  “If you would please clarify,” he said.  “What, precisely, are we doing that is, ‘wrong’?”

Uhura gave him a long, steady stare.  “Well, first of all, you’re making communication pretty difficult.”

Spock bit his lip to hide a traitorous smile.

“And secondly, all of your efforts have been directed towards uniting our planet.  You’re assuming things.  You’re not looking at our past, or any other relevant data.”

Sarek looked very offended at this accusation.  He opened his mouth, but Uhura beat him to the punch.

“Look, I like the idea of a united Earth as much as you guys do, but honestly?  Most people don’t.  Humans like autonomy.  The more, the better.  People like to decide things for themselves.  The majority of our societies and economies revolve around give and take from other societies and economies.  We can’t have just one big old United Earth government yet.  We would stagnate.”

Sarek’s expression didn’t change, but the hardness in his eyes softened a little, Urhua’s words starting penetrate just the slightest.

“So, as a human,” he said, “You are here to make us aware of our error.  I see.”  He tilted his head, and pursed his lips.  “What course of action then, would you suggest?”

Uhura shrugged.  “Honestly?” she said.  “I don’t know.  Maybe different regions could decide who they want to be a part of, if anyone?  Maybe there could be an Earth Council?  Some major international rules that everyone must abide by, but everything else can be decided on a regional basis?  I really don’t know.”  She set her shoulders.  “I’m just one human,” she said.  “You don’t have to listen to me.  But if you want to maintain good relations with Earth, then you’re going to have to go to the people.  Ask them what they want, and let them achieve it for themselves.”  She folded her hands.  “I guarantee that unless you rule with an iron fist, any government you put in place will fall within twenty years.  And then we’ll be right back where we started.”

It was quiet for a moment. Sarek paced across the room to look out at Earth again through the viewer.  Uhura uncrossed and then re-crossed her legs, though she kept on eye on Sarek, whose expression remained impassive, his eyes giving away nothing of his thoughts.

“A council,” said Spock, suddenly.

Uhura and Sarek both turned to look at him.

“It is the logical course of action,” he said.  “There must be a council.  It must be broadcasted throughout the entire planet.  We will explain our intentions, and the current Earth governments and those who wish to separate, must all have representatives in attendance.”

Uhura blinked.  “Like a gigantic press meeting?”

Spock looked uncertain.  “If that is the human term,” he said.  Sarek appeared doubtful, his face still shadowed.

“That is a very inefficient course of action,” he said.  “It will likely take months to organize.”

“Then let it take months!” Uhura exclaimed.  She backed down as Sarek turned a reproachful eye to her.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “But you have to understand—humans are inefficient and illogical.  If you want to maintain our planet’s goodwill, your approach to us must reflect that.”

Sarek exhaled, and gave her a considering look.  “I will take your words under advisement,” he said finally.  “But you must understand, I also must answer to the Vulcan High Command.  It is they who will make the final decision.”

“I guess that’s all I can ask,” Uhura said.  She rose.  “I guess I’ll see you later, Spock.”  She waved her hand ruefully at his injuries.  “I’m glad you’re getting better.  Pay us a visit on the surface sometime.  I know Jim would be glad to see you.”

“I shall,” Spock said, speaking around a strange lump in his throat.

Uhura locked eyes with Sarek.  “There is one more thing,” she said.

Sarek lifted an eyebrow.  “And that is?”

“A goodwill gesture,” Uhura said firmly.

Sarek blinked.  “Is our very presence not a gesture of goodwill?”

“That’s different,” said Uhura.  “And it’s got to be something big.”

“Big,” Sarek repeated.  “I see.  Is this a human custom?”

“It will make you look good,” Uhura said.  “And believe me, you guys need to look good.”

“Very well,” said Sarek, resigned.  “And is there anything else you wish to discuss?”

Uhura smiled, and shook her head.  She headed towards the door.  “Oh, wait, yeah,” she said, stopping and placing her hands on her hips.

Sarek raised an eyebrow.

“Get a telephone number or something.  You’ve got to be reachable.  Relatable.  Not just looming around in the sky, beaming down to go arrest Orions or whatever it is you’ve been doing.”

“Very well,” Sarek said, now not even trying to hide his weariness.  “We will also look into, ah, ‘getting a telephone number,’ as you say.”

“Fantastic,” said Uhura.  She bowed to Sarek, waved one last time at Spock, and marched out the sickbay door to be escorted back to the surface of the planet.

Sarek watched the door close behind her.  He eased himself into a chair, chin cushioned on both hands.  “Humans are an exhausting species,” he said.

Spock grunted, already back to scrolling through his data pad.

“Spock,” said Sarek, after a minute.

“Yes?”

“What is a telephone number?”

Spock opened his mouth, then closed it.  “I believe that if we are to have any success in this matter, then we will need to further research human culture.”

Sarek looked a little pained at the idea, then nodded.  “And are you willing?”

“Me?” said Spock.

“You are the logical choice,” Sarek said, now peering at him, as if concerned by Spock’s surprise.  “You have human ancestry and you have spent the most time among them.”

Spock folded his hands together and rested them on top of his knees.  The task was monumental.  Not beyond him but not, perhaps, his chosen field of interest.  Still, it would afford him many opportunities.  He would likely forge many connections here, on Earth.

“Spock?” prompted Sarek.

Spock gave himself a mental shake.  “I am willing,” he said, voice soft.

“You are certain?”

Spock thought of a human smile, of laughing blue eyes, and words in the night under the desert sky.  He nodded.  “I am willing,” he said, voice much stronger this time. 


	19. Let Your Spirit Fly VII

**Let Your Spirit Fly VII**  
  
The United Earth Council took four months to cobble together.  In that time, Sarek made more hasty decisions than he was really comfortable recalling.  He also wore through the elbows on two sets of robes, and had to have another set discreetly let out, as he had discovered a proclivity for human sweets.  
  
Spock recovered, and then spent the majority of his time doing Sarek’s bidding.  Any time left, he used to visit Sybok, who still had not awoken.  He might have suspected Sarek of orchestrating events in order to prevent Spock from returning to his companions on Earth, if not for the fact that Sarek was far too busy to be orchestrating anything but his next meeting.  
  
Most of Spock’s time was taken up with research.  He soon became the foremost Vulcan expert on human history, devouring text after text.  He studied the ancient days, the Roman and Mongolian Empires, and the Medieval Ages.  He pored over the famous artists of the Renaissance, and launched into the Industrial Revolution and then the Technological Revolution, with gusto.  He became familiar with the names of famous geneticists, and the conquerors who orchestrated World War III.  Working as a goodwill ambassador for his father, the actual ambassador, Spock visited the various regions on Earth.  He met with barely functioning bureaucracies and organized representatives.  Twice he was forced to flee communities on lockdown, and once he got caught in a demonstration that turned to a riot.  
  
“No, Ambassador, Vulcan cannot enter into any trade agreements until relations between our planets are recognized and official.”  
  
“Yes, Council, my people do believe in the use of logic over emotion.  That does not, however, make us immune to the understanding of it.”  
  
“I apologize, but I cannot return your president to you—he is an Orion and a criminal, and he will stand trial on Betazed for violating at least six interplanetary treaties.”  
  
“My physiology is similar to yours in its basic constituents.  Its placement is somewhat different.  Forgive me, Governor, but I do not see how this is relevant to the cessation of tribal warfare.”  
  
“You are of course within your rights to dispute our presence on your planet.  Your opinion will be allowed full reign at the upcoming Council.”  
  
“Yes, you are invited.”  
  
“No, this is not a plot to usurp your authority.  That would be most illogical.”  
  
And so on.  
  
By the day of Earth’s first council as a freed planet, he believed himself to have a good understanding of human history and human culture.  Humans themselves however, he was beginning to suspect that he would never understand.  
  
For Jim had not attempted to contact him.  
  
The first United Earth Council took place in a large amphitheater built on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.  For security’s sake, the location remained a secret until after the meeting itself.  One thousand, five hundred and seventeen delegates, each representing a region, a country, or a tribe, were flown to the island by Vulcan security forces.  The Resistance too, was in attendance, and although Spock caught glimpses of Pike, Uhura, and Sulu, he did not see Jim.  
  
Spock had personally seen to the seating arrangements in the amphitheater.  It had taken no less than a full week of comparing notes with his father’s other underlings, and feeding list upon list of national enmities into various algorithms.  He could now fully appreciate the efforts Surak must have gone through to make sure his own constituents did not kill each other at first sight.  The entire process had been not only trying, it had been downright frustrating.  
  
 _Perhaps force-fields would not have been out of place after all_ , he mused, as he found himself eyeing all the delegates from the Balkan regions, and making sure that they were staying precisely equidistant from one another, where he had put them.  
  
He wondered too if, even despite his vast efforts to the contrary, representatives might still attempt to assassinate one another—no matter if they were seated together or not.  Spock shifted a little, and glared down at a week’s worth of work on his data pad.  At this rate, he might as well have settled for alphabetical order, and saved himself the trouble  
  
Eventually, after much chaos and two interventions by security, the human delegates were all settled.  
  
Sarek stepped up to the podium.  Spock, who was seated with the Vulcan delegation a little ways below, watched as he prepared to speak.  Although worry was not, perhaps, strictly a logical activity to partake in, Spock could not help but do so.  What if Sarek’s speech was not met with human approval?  Or, possibly worse, what if some humans approved, and others did not?  That could very well set up a plausible basis for yet another war.  Spock tried not to grind his teeth, and felt as though his own tension must be palatable to the other Vulcans around him.   The knowledge did nothing to alleviate it.  
  
Finally, Sarek began to speak.  
  
“Greetings,” he started, standing tall at the podium, though looking a bit askance at the microphone he had been presented with.  His brown robes, embroidered with the purple and red of Spock’s clan, swayed in the tropical breeze.  Sarek’s mouth was stern.  “As I have been informed that it is a custom on Earth when giving a speech, I would first bid you welcome, and extend my gratitude to you for joining me at this Council.  I am Sarek of Vulcan.”  
  
The humans in the audience stared at him intently.  Spock could not help but wonder if they were intent upon his words, or if they were more focused on his alien appearance.  A few whispered amongst themselves.  One or two jotted down some notes.  Spock clenched his hands together until the knuckles showed white.  
  
“As you are no doubt aware,” Sarek continued, “It is our intent that the proceedings of this Council are seen by all the citizens of your planet.”  He looked around.  “We do not condone subterfuge.”  
  
More muttering.  Spock willed his father to hurry up with the speech and let the humans argue amongst themselves.  
  
“My planet is a peaceful one,” Sarek said.  “We honor the path of logic.  Our highest interest is the pursuit of logic, and of peace.”  He cleared his throat.  “Therefore, before I speak further, let me assure you, and all humans:  we have no designs on your planet.  We have no designs on your people, nor on your resources.  If not for the Orion Syndicate, our own laws would have prevented us from making contact with your species.”  
  
Silence greeted this pronouncement.  
  
“However, in ridding your planet of the Syndicate’s influence, we understand that we have also rid your people of stability.  It is our responsibility therefore, to assist your planet in achieving not only stability, but also prosperity, once more.”  
  
Sarek paused for a moment, looking out at the crowd.  His gaze flicked over to the Resistance and then over to the Vulcan Delegation, to Spock.  His voice grew stronger.  “I understand that, given your planet’s last treatment by an alien race, it is difficult for you to trust Vulcan.  However, I swear to you that, to the best of our ability, we will assist only inasmuch as your species desires.”  
  
Another break.  The humans shifted and breathed and spoke to one another in what might have passed for subtle whispers, and looked to Sarek, to the Vulcans, to each other, and waited.  They waited.  Spock willed himself to calm, to listen to this speech as if it were any other Sarek might give, as if he and his father had not carefully selected each word, each turn of phrase.  As if they had not double, triple checked what might offend whom, and what might cause fractures that even the might of Vulcan could not fix.  
  
“This brings me to you, the audience to whom I speak now.”  Sarek pursed his lips, as if preparing to choose his words carefully, though Spock knew that surely he had memorized the speech almost as soon as it had been finalized.  
  
“The people you represent today have selected you as their leaders.  Before this Council is adjourned therefore, I implore you to speak to one another.  Divide up your regions and people the way you see fit, or do not.  This place, this time, is here for you to determine a method of maintaining a peaceful planet, with strong leaders and content citizens.  
  
“Vulcan will send our resources to aid your recovery, and our ships to guard your planet against those who would mean you ill.  And when your people discover true spaceflight, our High Command is open to an alliance of equals.”  
  
Sarek hesitated.  “Though we will aid you,” he said, “We cannot dictate your future.  Humans must forge their own path, and that of their planet.”  He held up his hand in the _ta’al_.  “Live long, people of Earth,” he said.  “And prosper.”  
  
The sea of humans was silent.  Nobody moved a muscle.  Spock scanned the crowd, preparing to order an immediate return to the ship, should the humans prove violent.  
  
And then slowly, very slowly, a woman stood, tall and unbending.  She wore a dress of black cotton and her hair was grey, coiled into a bun at the back of her head.  She stared hard at Sarek.  And then her face broke into a smile, and she began to clap.  Others stood as well, rising like a tidal wave until it seemed as if all the people there were moving and clapping and cheering and whistling.  The noise was staggering.  
  
Freed from the scrutiny of the cameras by the shielding of the bodies around him, Spock allowed himself to collapse back into his chair, weak from relief.  There was much work to be done of course; the Council was scheduled to continue for several weeks.  There were treaties to be made and laws to be rewritten, or cast out entirely.  Truth be told, Spock had it on excellent authority that seventy eight point three percent of the planet was functioning largely out of bureaucratic inertia (though he had already heard of two attempted military coups) and that the remaining percent had essentially dissolved into anarchy, which of course would need to be addressed.  
  
To add to the collective headache of Sarek and his ambassadorial staff, there were still large factions of humans who did not trust Vulcan’s promise, certain that they were being taken advantage of, or unwilling to permit alien presence on their soil.  Naturally, and to Sarek’s eternal despair, the media had not been of much assistance in this matter—apparently preferring to fan the flames of chaos, rather than attempting to calm the collective masses.  
  
And of course, there was also the question of the sect that believed, with utmost sincerity, that the “Vulcan presence” was nothing more than an intricate conspiracy on the part of their own government.  Or possibly a rival government.  The identity of the alleged conspirators was often unclear.  
  
In all honesty, Spock had half a mind to just leave that particular group to their delusions.  
  
These issues would need to be resolved—amongst all of the other tasks inevitably required when one attempted to rebuild the entire governing structure of a planet from scratch—but Spock had not quite worked himself up to worrying about them.  This first step at least, had been taken, and it had been well received.  
  
It was satisfactory.  
  
“Spock?” came a hesitant voice from behind him.  
  
Spock froze.  He rotated around to eye the speaker, and then felt very glad that he was already sitting down.  
  
“Jim?” he whispered, disbelieving.  
  
Jim smiled, though it was a bit shaky.  “Hey,” he said.  He indicated the mass of human bodies.  “Quite the party you’ve got going on here.”  
  
Spock rose as if in a dream.  He took one step forward into the aisle.  Two, and he was next to the wall.  “Jim?” he repeated.  “You are—you are well?” he reached out, and Jim’s hand met him halfway.  Their fingers twined as if of their own volition, Jim’s calluses rough against the relative softness of Spock’s palm.  
  
“I’m well,” Jim confirmed, voice oddly scratchy.  
  
Spock reached out with his second hand, as if to touch Jim’s face, then lowered it back to his side.  “You are well,” he repeated.  “I feared, perhaps, since you did not contact me—”  
  
“No!” Jim said.  He lowered his voice as they caught the attention of the delegates from the Cayman Islands, who gave them the stink-eye.  “I just.  I’m sorry.  I just didn’t think you wanted to be bothered.  I thought . . .” he paused, looking around.  “Can we go somewhere else?”  
  
Spock cast a glance over to Sarek.  He was busy speaking with several delegates at once, all the while deftly avoiding the dreaded handshake.  Spock had a terrible premonition regarding his own future, and promptly made a decision to never, ever go into politics.  
  
“Very well,” he said.  
  
They left the main amphitheater, pacing their way side by side down a path to a small stone building, brushing by palm fronds and bright red hibiscus as they walked.  The building they reached was squat with whitewashed stones, its bamboo shutters open to the ocean breezes.  It resembled those put aside for the delegates, to ensure their comfort during the Council.  
  
“The Resistance’s been put here,” said Jim, pushing open a cheerfully painted wooden door.  “Even Gaila.  Did you hear she’s been given refugee status?”  
  
“Which country?” Spock said, although in all honesty he could not care less.  
  
“United East Africa.  I think Uhura pulled some strings.”  
  
“She has been fortunate.”  Spock stepped inside, and felt Jim move in behind him and close the door.  He turned.  “Jim,” he started, and then shut his mouth as he suddenly found himself crowded up against the door, Jim’s eyes on him, heavy and intent.   He exhaled, feeling his body relax as though boneless.  
  
Jim stared at him for a moment, then leaned his forehead in to rest against Spock’s chest.  Almost on instinct, Spock’s hand rose to stroke his hair.  
  
At the touch, Jim shook.  
  
“Oh god,” he said, voice breaking.  “Oh god.  I’m sorry, Spock.  I don’t mean to be all fucked up like this, really, I don’t.  I just—” he took a shuddering breath, and nuzzled his nose against Spock’s collarbone.  Spock sucked in air.  
  
“Jim,” Spock repeated, voice weaker than he would have preferred.  He found his hands petting Jim’s head, smoothing down the dark blond hair, then trailing further, over the back of his neck, circling his rounded ears.  “Jim.”  
  
“I thought you were dead,” Jim whispered.  
  
Spock stopped caressing him, smoothed his hair down one more time just to feel its texture, and then dropped his hands to his sides.  “But surely you had word?” he said, starting to feel alarmed.  Had this been why Jim had not contacted him?  But he had thought that Uhura . . .  
  
Jim bit his lip.  “Well, yeah,” he said.  “I had _word_.”  He scowled at the term, glancing away at the floor.  “I even saw you on, like, the news and stuff.  But I didn’t—I didn't _see_ you so—it didn’t feel, I don’t know.  Real.”  A beat.  “Really, I thought,” his hands grasped Spock’s wrists and held them there, held him there against the door like he was afraid Spock would do like a mirage and vanish.  “You got shot in the chest,” he said.  “Your eyes were closed and I couldn’t—” he shuddered.  “But I know you’re not,” he said.  “I know.  I’ve known.”  He half sounded as if he were still unconvinced.  “Fuck, I promised myself I wouldn’t act like such a pussy,” he said, breath huffing out in something that was not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.  “I uh, missed you,” he said, more seriously.  “A lot.”  He looked down, as if he could not bear to meet Spock’s eyes at the admission.  
  
Spock’s mouth felt dry.  “I understand,” he said.  At this, Jim looked up.  His fingers on Spock’s wrists flexed and then loosened like a spasm.  
  
“Then why didn’t you try to contact me?”  
  
Spock gazed helplessly for a moment.  What could he say?  That he had been busy?  That he had feared Jim no longer wanted to speak with him?  To know him, body and mind both?  That once they were no longer thrown together by happenstance, whatever they had would disintegrate like dust before the rains?  
  
From somewhere, he found his voice.  
  
“Why didn’t you try to contact _me_?”  
  
Jim’s hands slid up until they rested on Spock’s shoulders.  He tightened his grip and looked up.  They eyed one another.  Measuring.  Seeking.  Inquiring.  Spock felt his breath coming quickly, as if he had just run a great distance.  His heart pounded, and he could see nothing before him but Jim’s blue, blue, human eyes.  
  
Surprisingly, it was again Jim, who looked away first.  
  
“Because I was afraid,” he said to the floor.  
  
“Afraid?”  
  
Jim looked back at him, expression suddenly fierce.  “Yes, Spock, afraid,” he snapped.  “Vulcan had come.  Your dad had swept you off onto that ship and I thought,” he shook his head, then fixed Spock with a defiant look, though Spock thought that he could see something else behind it.  “I thought you might not want to come back.”  
  
Spock stared at him, unsure what to say.  It was fair, how _had_ Jim known he would come back?  There was nothing logical to draw him to Earth, except for, well, except for whatever it was that was between them.  And if Spock himself had had doubts . . .  
  
He swallowed.  There were many replies he could give.  Excuses.  The truth.  Yet here, and in the now, is seemed as though there was only one proper answer to Jim’s query.  
  
Spock straightened his shoulders, in courage or in resignation he did not know, and leaned in.  Jim’s eyes fluttered closed as Spock placed the lightest of human kisses upon his mouth.  He pressed his forehead against Jim’s, and clutched at his hands.  
  
“You will always draw me back,” he whispered.  “It is not, perhaps, logical.  But you are in my mind, and in my very soul.  I will always return to you.”  
  
Jim drew a shuddering breath.  “Yeah,” he said, voice cracking.  “You too.”  
  
Spock kissed him again.  
  
They stayed in the building for the remainder of the afternoon.  Spock was certain that he would be missed, but found that he did not care as he and Jim learned each other slowly.  He thought Jim’s body exotic, water rich, and sweet.  His hair was softer than a Vulcan’s, his skin delicate and easily bruised.  
  
The layers of Spock’s formal robes were delved into and then shrugged off until he stood, naked, the warm air from the open window caressing his form.  He could not get enough as his fingers kissed Jim’s skin, twined through his hair, skittered geometric patterns and Vulcan script across the muscle of his shoulders.  He pulled at Jim’s shirt and pawed at his pants, suddenly grateful for his understanding of the human zipper.  A musky scent played about Jim’s body, and Spock reveled in it.  He pushed Jim down onto the floor, onto his back, and Jim allowed it, yielding but not weak.  
  
They gasped for breath at the most intimate of touches, at wanting.  The cool wood beneath them warmed only slightly through their own heat.  Spock wondered if this was what the burning, the _Pon Farr,_ felt like, and then dismissed the thought.  This fire burned too slow, too hesitant for that.  Jim reached for Spock’s hands and Spock held them like an anchor as they moved, eyes closed, mouths gasping.  Words were spoken; low and deep, their meaning was irrelevant, the feeling behind them not.  
  
(Jim professed an almost shameful interest in Spock’s Vulcan strength, and Spock was more than willing to oblige him in this.)  
  
In the end they lay twined together, satisfied, upon the floor.  Jim’s sweat and other, more intimate substances, cooled onto Spock’s skin, and Spock found that he did not mind at all.  
  
Eventually they rose, washed as best as they were able (Jim grimacing at a newly forming bruise at the juncture between his neck and his shoulder), and made their way back to the amphitheater.  The council had been adjourned for the day, but there were still many people roaming about, snatching snacks from the silver trays of the passing waitstaff, talking and laughing.  Jim drew Spock into a shaded corner, next to a grove of palm trees.  
  
“Do you think your family will mind?”  
  
Spock considered this.  “My father wed a human,” he said, “and sired a son with her.  I do not think that he is allowed to ‘mind.’  My brother . . .” he trailed off.  Sybok had awoken at long last, despite the healers’ predictions.  But there was a strangeness about him now that had not been there before.  He seemed simultaneously pliable yet separate, as if reality was no longer relevant to the way his mind functioned.  Spock did not know what to think of it.  It made him uneasy.  
  
Jim looked concerned for a moment, then shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “I don’t mean that.  Just, that you’ll stay here with me, on Earth.”  
  
“You could always come to Vulcan,” said Spock.  _Like my mother_ , went unsaid.  
  
“No,” Jim said, smiling a little.  “You know I can’t.  Earth needs me here.”  He brushed Spock’s cheek with his knuckle.  “If I was the kind of guy who’d run away to Vulcan at a moment’s notice, I don’t think we’d even be having this conversation, anyway.”  
  
Spock caught his hand, touched it in a Vulcan kiss, then lowered it.  “No,” he agreed.  “I understand.”  
  
Jim looked up at the sky.  So far from the major cities, and on a clear night, the stars winked down at them.  “I did always want to travel in space though,” he said, voice a little regretful.  “Too bad it’ll be years and years before we figure out how to do it like you guys.”  
  
Spock suddenly looked a little shifty.  Jim noticed.  
  
“Spock?” he said.  
  
“Nothing,” said Spock, voice very, very monotone.  
  
“Spock,” Jim said, more sharply.  “Come on, out with it.”  
  
Spock held his mouth stubbornly closed for a moment, then relented when Jim elbowed him in the side.  “My father was advised that a ‘goodwill gesture’ would not go amiss,” he said.  
  
“Bet Uhura told him that,” Jim said, amused.  
  
“He has not made the announcement,” Spock continued, ignoring him, “But after he and I had consulted for some time, we came upon one that might be, well.  Suitable.  The High Command was initially reluctant, but we have secured their agreement.”  
  
Jim crossed his arms.  “And?” he prompted, when Spock did not speak.  
  
Spock’s expression turned serious.  “The Orion Syndicate holds not only a reputation as the criminals of the galaxy.  They are also very active in the slave trade.”  
  
The lines on Jim’s forehead creased.   “What do you mean?”  
  
Spock gripped Jim’s shoulders and turned him to face him fully.  “You spoke to me of children being taken,” he said, voice somber.  Jim nodded.  “But the prison camps of this planet have been evacuated and burned to the ground, the fields of _hain-enela,_ er _, removed_ , and still many are unaccounted for.”  
  
“Then they must be dead,” Jim said, though his voice betrayed his uncertainty.  
  
But Spock shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “Human slaves would be very valuable.  They may be out there.”  He gestured toward the sky.  
  
“Like McCoy’s daughter,” Jim breathed.  
  
“Our goodwill gesture,” said Spock firmly.  “If they can be found, then we will find them.”  He looked hesitant.  “But we might require humans on the crew.”  
  
Jim’s eyebrows shot up.  “Oh?” he said, voice deceptively causal.  “Would you?”  
  
Spock gave him a sidelong glance.  “You would not, perhaps, know where the Vulcan Fleet might locate some suitable recruits?”  
  
Jim examined his fingernails.  “Oh, I might,” he said carelessly.  “Who wants to know?”  
  
Spock was abruptly very close to him.  “Me,” he said.  
  
“Oh, well, in that case,” said Jim, smirking.  “If it’s you.”  
  
“Would you be willing?” Spock murmured into his ear.  Jim shivered.  
  
“You might have to convince me a little,” he said, then gasped as Spock kissed his neck, then breathed on it.  “Hey, I thought PDA was a no-no in Vulcan culture.”  
  
“We are not on Vulcan,” Spock pointed out.  
  
“Your father can see us.”  
  
Spock immediately drew away.  He looked about, saw nothing but humans, none of whom were interested in their little corner, and focused back in on Jim.  His eyes narrowed.  
  
“Just kidding,” said Jim.  He grinned.  “Should have seen your face.”  
  
Spock scowled at him.  Jim prodded the corner of Spock’s mouth with his index finger.  
  
“Careful,” he said.  “I think Earth’s been a bad influence on you.  You’ve got an expression on your face.  Want me to see if I can wash it off?”  
  
“Undoubtedly,” Spock returned dryly.  He grudgingly allowed Jim to lean against him, and they lapsed into a comfortable quiet.  
  
“I’d do it,” Jim said suddenly.  “It’s something I’d be good at, something this planet needs, too.”  He smiled, indicating the massive collection of delegates.  “I don’t think I’d do too well in the political arena, anyway.”  
  
Spock shifted to see his face.  “Indeed?”  
  
“As long as you come too,” Jim clarified.  
  
“Of course,” Spock said.  “I would not have suggested it otherwise.”  
  
“Okay,” said Jim.  He yawned.  “Still though, that’s kind of cheating, since we’d be using your guys’ ships and stuff.  It’s still going to be a while before we develop our own, and can get on any sort of equal footing.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Spock said, looking again up at the stars, as Jim slipped his palm into Spock’s.  He looked at their clasped hands, then back up at the sky.  “Then again,” he said, “it seems as though many things are possible.”  He stroked Jim’s fingers, and thought of a meeting on the edges of the Sol system so many years ago, and another in the desert, just as unlikely, and just as unpredictable.  “I do not think humans will have very long to wait.”  
  
“No?” Jim said.  “Sarek seems to have got the idea that it’s going to take goddamn millennia.”  
  
“No,” Spock replied, now thinking of an underground lab far to the north, hidden beneath a respectable shop.  “You are a very resourceful species.”  He reached over and drew Jim into a kiss.  “And the stars have been waiting for you long enough.”


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are at the end. Thanks to everyone for reading and for commenting, it's meant the world to me. I hope you've had just as much fun as I have.

**Epilogue**  
  
“Spock, come on.  Come _on_.  I’m sure they have stores on—wherever.  The cab’s waiting.  And don’t you have replicators anyway?  Isn’t that a thing?”  
  
“While replicator technology negates the need for stores, it is still a relatively new technology and as such, unreliable,” Spock said, meticulously folding yet another pair of black socks.  He surveyed the contents of his suitcase with pursed lips.  
  
“Oh, shut up.”  Jim tugged at his shirtsleeve.  Then he rubbed the material between his fingers and grinned up at Spock.  “These are kind of nice, you know.”  
  
“Of course they are nice,” Spock said, plucking the fabric of his robes from Jim’s grasping hands and closing the lid on his suitcase.  “My father purchased them.”  
  
“For you.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“Your daddy’s kind of a big deal, ain’t he?”  
  
“Jim, if you would desist from lapsing into your colloquialisms.”  
  
“You love it, though.”  
  
Spock slanted his eyes at him.  
  
Lying on the bed, Jim propped his chin in his hands and gave Spock an unabashed stare.  “I like you with the fancy robes,” he said.  “They make you look all mysterious.”  He frowned.  “Or like you’re really into fancy bathrobes.”  
  
Spock raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Of course, I like you just as much without them.”  
  
The other eyebrow shot up.  
  
“Naked,” Jim added, as if the comment had needed any clarifying.  
  
Spock gripped the suitcase and lifted it off the bed.  He headed towards the door.  “We will be late.”  
  
“Spo-ock,” Jim whined.  Nevertheless, he rolled over, swinging his legs off the bed and standing.  “If we’re late, it’s your fault,” he said, catching up to Spock just inside the door.  He grabbed his own bag, slinging it over his back as they hurried down the hall.  “You’re the one who had to double, triple check you’d packed every goddamn thing.”  
  
They had reached the hotel lobby before Spock turned to Jim.  
  
“I am not confident that Risa supplies the items to which I have become accustomed,” he said.  “It seems illogical, not to mention a waste of time, to search for products that I deem similarly satisfactory, rather than devoting a few minutes to making sure that I have brought my own.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.”  They stepped outside, Jim shading his eyes against the mid-afternoon sun.  “If by a few minutes, you mean twenty.”  
  
“I did _not_ take twenty minutes.”  
  
The taxi they had called sat idling by the curb at the entrance to the hotel.  Jim gave the man behind the wheel a nod as he and Spock stored their bags in the trunk, and then climbed into the back.  In return, the cab driver blinked at Spock with only minimal surprise.  Although it had been less than six months since the United Earth Council, the presence of a Vulcan in San Francisco had become, if not commonplace, at least not cause for rallying the armed forces.  
  
“The spaceport, please,” Jim said, unable to hide the little shiver of pleasure at the thought that San Francisco now actually had a spaceport—a fucking _spaceport_ —and that he was going to it.  He settled contentedly into his seat, and rolled down his window.  
  
The taxi driver turned around and grinned at Jim, frizzy blond hair bobbing in uneven curls around his head.  “To the Frisco space-fucking-port,” he agreed.  
  
“Humans,” Spock muttered, eyeballing the pair of fuzzy dice hanging off the review mirror.  Jim elbowed him.  
  
Technically, the San Francisco spaceport was a continuation of the regular airport, extending out into the bay like long steel and concrete fingers.  By the standards of most space-faring species, it wasn’t much of a one; there were landing platforms sufficient for six Vulcan shuttles, though Spock had it on good authority that human engineers were already drawing up plans for some of their own, modified, Earth shuttles.  There were also ten areas solely devoted to transporter technology, although they remained operated by Vulcan personnel only.  
  
Spock had been to the spaceport several times before, and had watched as it had been built with an efficiency rivaling that of a Vulcan contracting team.  Yet, even he had difficulty comprehending just how much had changed in such a short time and, just as equally, how easily humanity had, more or less, already adjusted to it.  
  
Take Jim, for example.  Granted, he’d had a bit longer to get used to the idea, but here he was, practically dancing up to the shuttle as if he’d done this all his life, asking the pilot a million questions in the poorly, poorly accented Vulcan Spock had been trying to teach him, and generally making a nuisance of himself.  But he still knew enough not to sling a companionable arm over the pilot’s shoulder, and to practice his rudimentary shielding techniques when he got close enough to converse.  
  
It was a peculiarly human characteristic, this ability to adapt with such alacrity.  Were Spock given to such thoughts, he might have even believed it worrisome, that a species so quick to reshape its worldview, and so quick to learn, and to change, was about to be truly space capable.  Doubtless many of the High Command would think so.  However, Spock could not find it within himself to fear.  He needed only to see Jim’s face, his enthusiasm at finally, _finally_ not just seeing the stars, but visiting them too, to set his mind at ease.  
  
With a start, Spock realized he had been so deep in thought that he had stalled some distance away from their shuttle.  
  
“Spock!” Jim called.  He waved.  
  
Spock resumed walking.  He inclined his head at the pilot, and gestured for Jim to board the shuttle ahead of him.  
  
“Thanks, Solkar,” said Jim.  
  
Solkar nodded.  “The shuttle will depart in ten point six minutes,” he said to Spock.  
  
“Understood,” Spock said.  “And the _T’Klass_?”  
  
“The VSS _T’Klass_ is scheduled to depart for Risa at eighteen hundred hours, by Earth time.”  
  
Spock frowned minutely.  “Not sixteen hundred hours?”  
  
“The departure was pushed back by two hours in order to allow for recalibration of the replicators.”  
  
Spock tilted his head.  “Indeed?”  
  
Solkar could not withhold a slight grimace.  “This replicator technology seems, as yet, too new to be truly functional.”  
  
“Indeed,” Spock agreed, this time more fervently.  He and Solkar shared a commiserating look.  
  
Jim stuck his head back outside.  “Damn, you’re slow,” he said.  “Come on.”  
  
With a slight bow to Solkar, Spock entered the craft to stand behind Jim.  It was a standard twelve-person shuttle, and Jim had apparently already stowed his bag, and secured a seat next to one of the viewports.  
  
Someone whistled at him from behind.  Spock turned.  
  
“Spock, those robes make you look like a voodoo priest.  You ever get into the occult?”  
  
“Hello, McCoy,” said Spock, his back stiffening just the slightest bit.  
  
“Bones!” said Jim, beckoning him over.  “Hurry up if you want to get a window seat.”  
  
“Not on your life,” McCoy said, looking distinctly queasy.  He shoved his bag into a side compartment, and resolutely took the aisle seat, buckling his seatbelt with a little more force than necessary.  
  
“This shuttle is much safer than your human airplanes,” Spock said.  He settled himself and his bag next to Jim.  “There is only a 0.00017% chance of it crashing, barring unforeseen circumstances.”  
  
“You know, Spock?  You might do well to remember what happened to the last spaceship I was on.”  
  
“That was a Romulan ship,” Spock asserted.  “And you were evacuated before its explosion.”  
  
McCoy shut his eyes.  “You’re not making me feel any better.”  
  
“Bones, this was all volunteer, you didn’t have to come,” Jim said, actually sounding worried.  
  
At this, McCoy opened his eyes.  He reached into the front pocket of his shirt and withdrew a photograph.  He held it up between thumb and forefinger.  “Yes,” he said, meeting Jim’s gaze.  “I did.”  
  
Jim’s gaze flickered down to it.  A little girl, dark curly hair a halo around her head, and sporting a pink tutu and a gape-toothed smile, beamed up at them.  He looked back at McCoy, reached over, and rested his hand on McCoy’s shoulder.  “Yeah,” he said, “I know.”  
  
McCoy swallowed, and put the picture away.  
  
The moment was interrupted by the arrival of the rest of the human team Spock had put together.  He conceded that it hadn’t been very difficult.  He had selected McCoy for his medical expertise, Uhura for her languages, Sulu for his quick thinking, Chekov, the Chapel sisters, Jim . . .  
  
“Spock?” Jim said quietly.  He with drew from McCoy and leaned into Spock, just barely touching.  “You still with us?”  
  
“Yes,” Spock said.  He faced Jim.  “I apologize.  I believe I was, as you say, lost in thought.”  
  
“Care to share with the class?”  
  
“Class?”  
  
Jim rolled his eyes.  “What were you thinking about?”  
  
“The mission at hand,” Spock replied honestly.  “My . . . choices for the human team.  If they were the correct ones.”  
  
“Uh huh,” Jim said, giving his hand a discreet pat.  
  
Spock flushed.  
  
“Hey, no PDA in front of the crew,” Uhura ordered lazily.  She yawned.  
  
“We’re just holding hands!” Jim protested.  
  
“I went to the cultural seminar,” said Uhura, voice dry.  She yawned again.  
  
“Jet lag?” asked Sulu, sympathetically.  Uhura nodded.  
  
The shuttle began to rumble.  
  
“Here we go,” Chekov said, eyes bright.  
  
Spock sent a concerned look over to McCoy.  From the slight tremors of his hands and the white of his face, he did not appear to be comfortable, but neither did he appear to be in danger of imminent cardiac arrest.  Deciding that this was sufficient, he turned back to met Jim’s gaze.  “Are you ready?” he said.  Then he frowned.  “Jim, why are you wearing a patch over your eye?”  
  
“ _Arrr_ , I was born ready,” growled Jim, scowling fearsomely.  
  
More resigned than intimidated, Spock narrowed his eyes.  “Is this another human cultural reference?” he queried, using that voice he used when he actually just wanted to convey that humans were lunatics—Jim chief among them.  
  
“Space buccaneer Captain Jim, at yer service,” Jim said, apparently not receiving Spock’s less than subtle cues that if he continued to behave in such an illogical fashion, Spock would have little choice but to find seating elsewhere.  Possibly on another shuttle altogether.  
  
Spock stared at him.  
  
Jim winked.  
  
“I always wanted to be a space pirate,” said Sulu, a little wistfully.  
  
Jim peeled off the eye patch and tossed it to him.  “We should pass that around,” he said.  “Bet we could convince the Vulcans that it’s an ancient and solemn ritual.”  He grinned at Spock.  “What do you think?”  
  
“I think I am beginning to have doubts regarding the wisdom of this entire operation,” Spock said, starting to feel a kind of dread at the thought of these humans loose on a Vulcan ship.  He sincerely hoped that Solkar’s English skills were as rudimentary as they had appeared, and also that he was not listening in on this conversation.  
  
“Too late,” Jim said cheerfully, as the shuttle took off.  “You’re stuck with us now.”  He moved in closer, his mouth brushing the tip of Spock’s ear.  “You’re stuck with me,” he said, the words barely a whisper.  
  
Spock’s heart definitely did not skip a beat.  Nor did the tips of his ears turn a little greener.  
  
“Indeed?” he breathed back, trying to keep his voice even.  
  
Heedless of anyone else on the shuttle who might be watching, Jim pulled him into a kiss, his fingers, meanwhile, doing filthy things to Spock’s own.  Spock hazily supposed that he should regret teaching him about Vulcan forms of intimacy, but when Jim gripped his hands tight, found that caring was quite beyond him.  
  
“Yeah,” Jim said, when they separated.  “On this mission.  And the next.”  
  
After a moment, Spock rediscovered his voice.  “Very well,” he said.  “That is acceptable.”  
  
He squeezed Jim’s hand back.  
  
Jim smiled.  
  
  
 _The End_  
  



End file.
